tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87328759340384614712024-03-13T14:34:41.793-07:00Schooling BoysUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8732875934038461471.post-20257521729902604922009-10-07T01:37:00.001-07:002009-10-07T02:17:33.130-07:00Setting One's Expectations<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HRlBKK5oeWM/SsxZzQ5fgiI/AAAAAAAAABg/16oylj6J8NE/s1600-h/n_a.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 174px; height: 325px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HRlBKK5oeWM/SsxZzQ5fgiI/AAAAAAAAABg/16oylj6J8NE/s400/n_a.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389781591299949090" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >It was a sad fact, but as a lady teacher in an all-boys' school, one most certainly needed to make one's expectation in the classroom known. </span><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span>Despite some misgivings at the outset, my own experience of dealing with boys led me to the conclusion that a traditional approach is best. Indeed, one always needs to ask oneself why older, more experienced colleagues have held on to this approach for so many years; they were no fools! </span></span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">And I came to the conclusion that I would not betreated as a fool either and quickly adopted a firm, authorative approach towards the boys.</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />I worked as a teacher in an all boys’ prep school during the 60s and 70s where a great deal of attention was paid towards ensuring good behaviour at all times. The school was divided into two sections; the lower school for the 8 to 11 year olds and the upper school for the 11 to 13 year olds. In the upper school (mainly 12 to 13 year olds) a more formal atmosphere existed whereby we consciously adopted many of the features of the main independent senior school where the boys would shortly be heading for.<br /><br />As a young teacher just starting out in my career, I was put in charge of the eldest class (mostly 13-year old boys) and that particular year group had been notoriously difficult and had built up a quite formidable reputation for unruliness as they had come up through the school. Within days of becoming their form mistress, they had soon sensed my inexperience and learnt just exactly how to exploit every one of my weak points as only a group of badly behaved young teenage boys know how. By the end of the first week, I wondered if teaching really was the profession for me!<br /><br />The headmaster had obviously noted the tremendous problems I was facing and had said nothing all week. I think he was waiting for something to happen in me that would bring me to the same kind of conclusion as him about how to cope with ‘my’ class of boys. As I left the school on the Friday he approached me and asked me into his office. He passed onto me a skill that, unfortunately, can no longer be taught to young teachers in today’s schools, but would most certainly put them in excellent stead in regards to maintaining good discipline in their classrooms, especially in so far as boys are concerned.<br /><br />For twenty minutes or so, we pretended that the leather upholstered arm of his chair was a boy’s left hand and I was given expert guidance on how to swat it with an English prep school rattan cane. I took it home and practised on one of my mother’s armchairs over the entire weekend. At that time in my life, I was a pretty good tennis player and soon taught myself to deliver quite a withering blow to a young lad’s outstretched hand. When I returned to school on the following Monday morning, I was most definitely no longer the same teacher the boys had managed to nearly reduce to tears just a couple of days before.<br /><br />The first lesson up to the morning break was not good, I let them show me their worst, and they happily obliged me in this. The bell finally rang down the school corridor and the boys lined up at the door, their faces covered with those usual knowing smirks as they waited for me to stand at the door and, as usual, vainly wait for them to be silent. However, this time I didn’t hurry. I opened my desk and then strolled to the head of the nattering, disorderly line without one of them even noticing that I was there.<br /><br />Finally, I raised my voice. A few boys looked my way, saw the cane in my hand and immediately fell silent, others followed suit and, within seconds, the class stood mortified in total silence. I was in charge and to guarantee that this continued I knew that I had to make sure that the job was very well done. The first boy in the line was called Mayhewwhom I summoned towards me. He took one pace forwards, held out his hand, winced as he closed his eyes and gave out a sharp yelp and thanked his teacher before leaving the classroom (this avoided a swipe to the other hand for lacking manners!!!).<br /><br />Soon after, fifteen boys were quickly following Mayhew down the school corridor, groaning miserably, and then hurriedly disappearing into the toilets to find the nearest available cold water tap to douse their stinging palms. I later learnt to keep boys in the classroom after a caning to make sure that the stinging sensation stayed longer. But this was my first time. A wonderfully polite, hard working and dutiful class returned for their next lesson after break time!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8732875934038461471.post-46012322206520105772009-10-06T02:24:00.000-07:002009-10-07T03:39:59.338-07:00A Class Transformed!<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HRlBKK5oeWM/SsxgFgb4xMI/AAAAAAAAABo/rEUs35QvbsE/s1600-h/n_a.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 269px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HRlBKK5oeWM/SsxgFgb4xMI/AAAAAAAAABo/rEUs35QvbsE/s400/n_a.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389788501778154690" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;">A group of prep school boys walk through town:</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">This is very much the kind of uniform that we enforced at the school.</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">One thing that the headmaster did say to me was that the reason he was a headmaster was primarily because he was a good judge of character and could see things in others that they couldn’t see themselves! I prided myself on this for a long while, and although I still think that there is some truth in his claim, it was probably more due to staffing shortages and a lack of volition on the part of the older teachers to go through the bother of revamping their lessons for another age group!<br /><br />In those days, it was indeed more difficult for a woman to teach young lads of this age and I soon learnt that I had to prove myself to them. And the ‘art’ of the cane was the way that I seized back control of my class. The whole class caning that I carried out during my second week at the school was most definitely a deciding factor. A half hearted attempt or ‘token’ swat on each of the boys’ palms would not have earned me any respect whatsoever – I wasn’t yet an established figure in the boys’ eyes and any sign of mercy or compassion would have been taken as a weakness of character on my part and seized upon ruthlessly right through to the end of the school year.<br /><br />In fact, it was the deciding factor as to whether I would continue at the school or leave it in utter defeat. What the boys did not realise is that, when I lined them up for their first ration of ‘gruel’, I was the one in the corner, I was the one who had to kick out with all her might and kick out I most certainly did! No amount of words spoken to these boys would ever have had the salutary effect that those fifteen well placed swats had.<br /><br />I soon learnt that there was nothing that could quite match that small English prep school cane in terms of pure eloquence. It most certainly put forward a very convincing case in favour of conforming to my expectations as a teacher regarding the virtues of hard work, good behaviour, smart school uniform and respect for adult authority. When the boys returned after spending most of their break desperately nursing their sharply stinging palms, those knowing smirks were replaced by something altogether far more pleasant from their teacher’s point of view; a mixture of respectful obedience and a very strong desire to quickly learn how to avoid displeasing their new teacher.<br /><br />I knew I needed to act quickly in order to maintain my new found status quo. I made the class stand whilst I spoke to them about my expectations concerning correct school uniform, how as the eldest they needed to set an example and how whenever they were in uniform they were ambassadors to the school and how I, their teacher was very disappointed and had absolutely no desire to see scruffiness in MY classroom. This was immediately followed by a very thorough and detailed uniform inspection during which pupils busied themselves straightening their ties, tucking in shirts, pulling up socks etc until I was completely satisfied with their appearance.<br /><br />For the rest of the day, the boys looked wonderfully smart in their very English-looking prep school uniform with its traditional blazer and tie, short trousers and regulation socks. I felt a genuine sense of pride in them. I was their teacher, the one in charge, the one who had just won an important battle and had succeeded in transforming this group of insolent 13-year old boys into a class of smartly dressed, obedient young scholars. The boys’ appearance was now a total reflection of their new teacher’s values, standards and very high expectations as well as the resolutely traditional ethos of their school.<br /><br />As the boys worked in silence, I quietly announced that they were not to worry about the time that had been lost from today’s lesson due to their uniform inspection. It would quite simply be made up for by missing their morning break time the next day!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8732875934038461471.post-33516019418976972122009-10-05T03:40:00.000-07:002009-10-07T03:45:55.772-07:00Matron Philips<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255); text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">In teaching, one has the undeniable privilege of encountering from time to time those people who are prepared to go beyond their normal call of duty and offer services to the school that greatly benefit the pupils concerned. Miss Philips was one such person and her arrival in Wellington House as its new inexperienced matron turned out to be a veritable godsend indeed.<br /><br /><o></o></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255); text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255); text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The role of the house matron was to ensure that standards of behaviour were maintained among the boarders, that they tidied, dressed themselves and made their beds properly and were ready for the day ahead. As the term ‘matron’ so strongly suggests, Miss Philips was to be a maternal figure to the boys as well as their guide in matters of hygiene, tidiness and personal appearance among many other things.<br /><br /><o></o></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255); text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255); text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Miss Philips was a young woman who was very much the product of her own education which was imparted to her in a strictly run all girls’ private school. Her choice of dress strongly echoed the ethos of her ‘alma mater’ with her smartly pleated tartan skirt, sensible lace up black shoes and plain white blouse. And she had absolutely no qualms about passing on these beliefs and values to the boys in her charge and soon found her innate talents in matters of discipline and willingness to set the very highest of expectations for her boys to be very much appreciated by the boys’ subject masters.<br /><br /><o></o></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255); text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255); text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Miss Philips was astute enough to see that poor old Mr Driscoll really had lost his touch with reality and was fast losing control of </span><st1><st1><span style="font-family:Arial;">Wellington</span></st1></st1><span style="font-family:Arial;">. The likeable, yet less than competent veteran house master no longer had the ability to set the necessary expectations within his House. Boys had stopped fearing his study well before Miss Philips’s arrival and everyone knew him as a kind old duffer who was more concerned about this afternoon nap than the behaviour of the boys who were supposedly in his charge. Some at the school even suspected he was gradually succumbing to some form of long-term dementia.<br /><br /><o></o></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255); text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255); text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Arial;">In such a way, at a mere twenty years old, Miss Philips took total command over her boys who soon learnt that life in </span><st1><st1><span style="font-family:Arial;">Wellington</span></st1></st1><span style="font-family:Arial;"> was now set to change dramatically. Every morning, beds had to be properly made, pyjamas neatly folded on top of pillows and the boys had to stand to attention next to their beds in their school uniforms which their new matron personally inspected before dismissing them.<br /><br /><o></o></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255); text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255); text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Miss Philips had a noble aim for her boys; her boys would be the smartest, most orderly in the whole school and, like it or not, they were to become ‘her boys’ and reflect her values and eventually be under her personal charge. For several years, Miss Philips, a young hitherto wholly inexperienced matron became the unspoken commander of Wellington House. And, to be quite frank, she proved herself as redoubtable as any house master I have ever known.<br /><br /><o></o></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255); text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I can remember boys trembling with the most dreadful apprehension at the very thought of disappointing their matron. Miss Philips saw to it that her boys were always provided with a meaningful consequence to their actions. I shall never forget how she dealt with one boy in particular who has recently sent me his account of a meeting with Matron Philips whilst residing in Wellington House as a boarder in the second form. This is how he remembers it…</span><br /><br /><o></o></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 102);font-family:Arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><<<my></my></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 102);font-family:Arial;" ><o><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 102);font-family:Arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">She called for me when I least expected it. I was just coming to the end of lunch in the school dinning hall when Parker, her personally appointed helper stood behind me and said, “Finish now, Cooper. Matron Philips needs to see you in the dorm.” I followed Parker as he led me to the dorm. When I entered, Matron Philips was standing next to the iron railing at the end of my bed wearing her usual pleated tartan skirt, white blouse and a navy blue jacket with the school emblem from the girls’ school she attended sewn onto its right-hand breast pocket. She stared at me in silence and, as soon as I had approached, she pointed to a pack of chewing gum she had found stuffed inside the case of my pillow.<br /><br /><o></o></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 102);font-family:Arial;" ><o><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 102);font-family:Arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">“Don’t even bother lying to me, Cooper,” she said. “You know why you’re really here!” She was holding a small slender cane in one hand which she tapped against the iron rail of the bed. I took up my position and held my breath.<br /><br /><o></o></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 102);font-family:Arial;" ><o><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 102);font-family:Arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">At first, I was not unusually worried. Her cane was just a thin prep school cane, the sort used on younger boys of eight to eleven. But I soon learnt that her choice of cane was unusually flexible and whippier than any cane I had previously experienced. The first stroke caused me to let out a terrible shriek as the slender end of its tip whiplashed against my regulation grey shorts and left what felt like a streak of caustic fire across my bottom. She carried on relentlessly and, after a while, through the pain and endless swishing of her English prep school cane, I realised why I was there. I was there to be taught the way things were to be for the rest of my school life – like it or not, I was now under Matron Philips’s complete and utter charge and that was the way it was going to be from now on.<br /><br /><o></o></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 102);font-family:Arial;" ><o><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 102);font-family:Arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">She finished me off with a couple of stinging blows to the palms of my hands. When it had all finally ended and I just stood there in front of Matron Philips, my head bowed in submission to her authority, a part of me desperate to learn how never to displease her again. Before dismissing me, she spoke to me softly. “I’m sure you won’t be wanting to go through that again, Cooper. Will you now?” I nodded my head very firmly and nearly felt urged to beg her to explain to me what I should do from now on to avoid her wrath or displeasure.<br /><br /><o></o></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 102);font-family:Arial;" ><o><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 102);font-family:Arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">“Thank you, Miss Philips.” I said as Miss Philips dismissed me, not unkindly. “Good boy, Cooper,” she said smiling at me and then added, “You’re one of mine now!”>>><br /><br /><o style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"></o></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255); text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255); text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Young Cooper, along with all of the other boys who found themselves under Miss Philips’s charge soon learnt that obedience and respect towards their Matron was their only option. At times, Miss Philips was forced to remind individual boys of their mistakes and they found themselves at the receiving end of her small prep school cane which she used to an overwhelmingly strong effect. Indeed, Cooper later on described his dismay at just how ‘merciless’ it was when so expertly wielded by his new Matron and how, thanks to her, its stinging whiplash tail spurred him away from idleness and sloth towards reflecting her ideas and then finally embracing her values and beliefs in later life.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8732875934038461471.post-7272236721112399022009-10-04T13:26:00.000-07:002009-10-07T13:33:52.442-07:00Matron Philips - Making a Man of a Boy<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Part I</span></span><br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >During his first two years, Mayhew had pleased his masters with his hard work, attention to detail and automatic respect for their authority. He had been proud to be part of the school and had always worn his uniform with the utmost pride feeling a strong sense of identity with the values that it represented. In fact, it could be said that Mayhew had built up a reputation as the perfect pupil and, in his masters’ opinion, was set for higher things and some of his maters even spoke of Mayhew as possible ‘Sandhurst material’.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >He was a keen member of the school cadet force and enjoyed leading his small group of 1<sup>st</sup> form boys during Friday afternoon drill practice. During weekend camp, Mayhew had demonstrated his shared sense of order with the school when directing his young ‘cadet pack’ in being first to successfully erect their tent and pass inspection with flying colours. Each boy knew his exact task and when to fulfil it under Mayhew’s expert direction.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >The young boys looked up to Mayhew and two of them in particular, Chapman and Bishop enjoyed listening to his stories and, at a mere eleven years old, were clearly still naïve enough to readily believe much of what their pack leader said. To a great extent, it was during that weekend camping adventure that Mayhew got to know his pack and win their respect as their fearless commander-in-chief. Like any great leader, he realised the value of being able to walk the walk and, above all, talk the talk and the ‘talk’ started after dark beneath the canvas of his victory tent. The boys lay in sleeping bags, their heads meeting together over a dimly lit pocket torch; Mayhew spoke and the younger boys listened and occasionally Chapman or Bishop would ask him more, plainly astonished at the bravery of his words. And the more they asked, the more he felt brave and the more he felt admired and respected and valued. And all at Matron Philips’s expense!<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“What you have to realise, Bishop,” he explained with his finger waving in the darkness above the boys’ heads, “is that everybody has their weak points.”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Everybody!” exclaimed the younger boy.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Yes, Bishop. Everybody!” he said resolutely. “Even Matron Philips!”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >At this point, the younger boys laughed nervously and listened on as Mayhew explained his case. “Have you ever seen her cane, then?” he asked with derision in his voice. “It’s tiny, I’d say probably about the size of her boy friend’s dick. And you know why?... Because she’s not allowed anything bigger than that - and that’s a fact!”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >And it was thus that Mayhew’s bravado carried on through the weekend and then on into the weeks ahead as he and his minions met up at break and lunchtimes and after prep in various places around the school. Of course, he let it be known that he wasn’t really the model pupil everyone had thought he was. Of course, he had done his fair share of stunts, dares and forfeits. Of course, he had never felt the master’s cane upon neither palm nor hide, not because he was a goody goody or pesky swat, but rather because his daddy and eldest brother were terribly important in the ‘service’ and every teacher was far too scared to even think of laying a finger upon him… even… Yes, even Matron Philips herself!<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >To be honest, it was the snow ball effect. The more Mayhew boasted to the crowd the more his bravado took on new layers of bluster. He had always meant to lay it to rest, but the boys wanted to know more, to admire him, to gasp at his bravery, to look up to their leader who brought them victory at camp, who led them in drill, who could take on the scariest woman on earth and have her ‘eating out of his hands’ as he now so often liked to describe his relationship with ‘dear old Matron Pee’.<br /><br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Part II</span></span><br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >One morning, something very strange happened, very strange indeed. The boys in Mayhew’s dorm awoke to the sound of music. It was Matron Philips singing to herself as she walked straight through the middle of the dormitory between the double row of beds. “Wake up, boys,” she called and then she went on to announce the most impossible phrase that could never have come from between her lips. “Leave your beds to me. Just quickly get washed and get yourselves into that breakfast hall!”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Most could hardly believe it. A few pinched themselves to check to see if they were still dreaming as she carried on singing to herself. One boy even froze in terror utterly convinced that it was all some kind of a trick or cunning ruse to smoke out any last remnants of innate insolence that still lingered within him. But it was true, nobody was dreaming and Matron Philips even smiled at the terror struck boy, “Come on, </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1><st1><span style="font-family:Arial;">Dixon</span></st1></st1></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >,” she called over to him, “Your porridge is getting cold!”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Poor Dixon who had experienced the matron’s ‘darker side’ and was now ever mindful to always do what he was told, immediately hurried his pace, got washed and then changed into his uniform and stood to attention next to his bed. Matron Philips walked slowly up to the boy, shook her head imperceptibly, came closer and, with both hands, set to the task of readjusting his school tie. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1><st1><span style="font-family:Arial;">Dixon</span></st1></st1></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" > obediently raised his chin as her fingers skilfully slid the end of the tie through its knot and aligned it perfectly against his clean white collar. Just for a few moments, the neatly ironed pleats on Matron Philips’s tartan skirt gently brushed against his legs just below his grey regulation shorts.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >The young boy felt intensely elated. A few more times, he felt the edges of the pleats on her skirt delicately brushing the area just above his bare knees. All the while, her eyes were intently focussed upon creating for him the perfect knot for the day ahead. The house matron slowly shook her head and then repeated his name a few times over. “Oh </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1><st1><span style="font-family:Arial;">Dixon</span></st1></st1></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >, </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1><st1><span style="font-family:Arial;">Dixon</span></st1></st1></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >, </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1><st1><span style="font-family:Arial;">Dixon</span></st1></st1></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >, what are we going to do with you!” she gently laughed to herself as her fingers slid around his shirt collar to complete her work.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“There, </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1><st1><span style="font-family:Arial;">Dixon</span></st1></st1></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >,” she said with genuine warmth in her voice and stood back to admire the very smart-looking young schoolboy now standing before her. “You may go now.”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >As he left for the breakfast hall, it felt as though the pleats of Matron’s skirt were still touching </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1><st1><span style="font-family:Arial;">Dixon</span></st1></st1></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >’s legs and her fingers straightening his now perfectly knotted school tie. He listened to Mayhew and, this time, took avid notice of what he said. It angered him; it was Matron Philips after all whom Mayhew was so disrespectful of. And, as the new school day began around him, </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1><st1><span style="font-family:Arial;">Dixon</span></st1></st1></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" > suddenly felt strongly resolved, he no longer felt guilty about what he had done the evening before. He knew why it had had to be done – after all, a beautiful young lady’s honour had been at stake!<br /><br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Part III</span></span><br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Mayhew was somewhat puzzled all through his geography lesson during the late morning. At the beginning of the lesson, Parker had arrived with a note containing instructions direct from Matron Philips for him to assemble with his cadet pack in the dorm at </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1><span style="font-family:Arial;">twelve o’clock</span></st1></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" > sharp. When he arrived there, he found his pack standing in a neat line, shoulders back, chins out and what could best be described as sheer terror in their eyes. Matron Philips swivelled around as soon as their leader appeared.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“I’ve just been admiring your pack, Mayhew,” she said to the boy as he hurriedly fell into line with the rest. “I can most certainly see that you’ve done a fantastic job on them, sterling effort, Mayhew. Really, a sterling effort if I ever saw one!”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Mayhew’s face was expressionless, he jutted out his chin in true school cadet fashion and replied, “Thank you, Mam!” and lightly stamped his foot military style.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Excellent, Mayhew!” commended the house matron. She then gestured to them to take a look around the dorm. “I have a task for you, Mayhew. Look at all those unmade beds. I want to see if you can get your pack to do as good a job on them as they did with the tent during weekend camp a few weeks ago! Do you think that they’re up to it?”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Matron Philips nodded abruptly and started to leave. Then, as she reached the door, she looked around and shouted back, “Well, Mayhew? You had better get the boys cracking then, I’m coming back soon to inspect what they’ve done!”<br /><br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Part IV</span></span><br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Mayhew really had mobilised his pack as best he could. They had been given little time and it was more than likely down to the young boys’ twitchy nerves which had made them under perform. Matron Philips was not impressed however. She trotted from one end of the dorm to the other pulling out shoddily tucked in sheets, looked under covers to find ruffled blankets and sagging pillow cases. She then returned to the line of nervous boys and began to speak.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Appalling,” she announced with a clipped voice, “Totally and utterly appalling!” She then turned to Mayhew, looked him in the eye, he lowered his gaze automatically as she spoke. “Well, Mayhew. There’s only one answer to this, isn’t there? We’ll have to teach them a lesson for such shoddy work.”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Matron Philips walked over to one of the beds, produced her thin prep school cane and tapped it on the iron railing. “Chapman, here.” She commanded. She then walked to the next bed and tapped the cane on its rail. “Bishop!” . . . “</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1><st1><span style="font-family:Arial;">Walker</span></st1></st1></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >!” . . . “Thompson!” . . . “Curtis!” . . . “Simmonds!”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >The boys dutifully took up their positions in silence as their cadet leader looked on. One boy began to sob whilst others visibly trembled as a faint wave of murmuring ran through the ranks of petrified young schoolboy cadets. Bishop could no longer restrain himself from calling out in utter desperation, tears strained his still childlike voice, “Please Mam, please, please, Mam.” All the time, not daring once to leave his position.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Mayhew,” said Matron Philips. “With leadership comes the privilege of choice and with choice comes the burden of responsibility.” The English boys’ school matron pointed her cane towards the cold iron railings at the foot of Mayhew’s dormitory bed. “You must decide, Mayhew. Which is it to be? You or them?”<br /><br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Part V</span></span><br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Once the pack had been dismissed, Mayhew took up his position, his hands firmly grasped the top rail of the end of his bedstead. Matron Philips gently tapped the back of his legs indicating for him to shunt inwards by a few inches; as he did so, he felt the grey flannel of his regulation shorts constrict around his backside leaving him a perfectly exposed target for the full force of the slender whip-like cane that now hovered near at hand. Once boy and matron were ready, a brief pause ensued. Mayhew braced himself for his house matron’s first move. Matron Philips slowly raised her cane, a fierce swish cut the air above him immediately followed by a firm crack as the tip of her cane whiplashed against his bottom and left a sharp sting there which, seconds later, began to spread out across the whole area like a forest fire of burning agony.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Mayhew gasped in pure shock at the sheer intensity of the first stroke. In Matron Philips’s hands, the small English prep school cane left a caustic bite which, within seconds, caused the whole bottom to sting with agony. When the second stroke landed with deadly accuracy upon the first, Mayhew’s clenched both fists around the rail of the bedstead and drew in sharply the air around him. By the third stroke, his body reeled and tears welled up and a feeling of desperate panic invaded his whole being as every part of him urged his mouth to scream out for clemency from his house matron who showed absolutely no sign of allowing the agonising torment to finally end.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >After a few more strokes, Mayhew lost all reserve, between each stroke he whimpered pathetically and yelped like a small puppy each time the cane scourged his increasingly raw bottom. As the stinging intensified into a crescendo of undiluted pain, he could only see one thing in his mind’s eye; Matron Philips standing before him and speaking to him. “Learning obedience is never easy, Mayhew,” she said to the boy. “You have shown much courage, young man and earned the respect of your pack”. Mayhew nodded and tearfully thanked his Matron. “Yes, Mayhew, you are now learning what it means to be a leader, to take responsibility for others’ actions, to show sacrifice, to understand what will be expected of you, to be ever mindful of your duty as a leader.”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Whether Matron Philips actually spoke these words during his caning or whether Mayhew imagined them is difficult to say. The one thing that can be said is that the image of Matron Philips that seized his mind’s eye during that caning never really let go. Her image was akin to an icon that guided him to these conclusions and helped Mayhew to fully appreciate why his parents were sending him to the school he was at. Matron Philips embodied the very essence of the traditional English school; through strict discipline, she trained her boys to show automatic obedience, respect for authority and to develop a high regard for order and, above all, a sense of duty that overrides all personal considerations. She was moulding him into the man he was to be and Mayhew learnt to both fear and love his matron’s values and adopt them as his own.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >When Mayhew was finally allowed to stand up, he extended his hands towards his matron. The cruel whip-like tip of Matron Philips’s cane stung each palm twice over and left Mayhew in a wretched state. He held both hands under his armpits and winced with agony as his matron placed her cane upon the end of a bed and came toward him. She stood looking at the wretched figure before her and then walked over to him and began to tidy the knot of his tie. “There, Mayhew,” she said with genuine warmth in her voice straightening the lapels on his school blazer. “I can’t have any of my boys turning up to their masters looking scruffy, can I, Mayhew?”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Mayhew silently nodded his head, thanked Matron Philips and waited to be dismissed.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8732875934038461471.post-63433736166596678692009-10-03T13:55:00.000-07:002009-10-07T16:00:21.460-07:00Home Canes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HRlBKK5oeWM/Ss0dfr5kpXI/AAAAAAAAACU/hn_TM91lQFc/s1600-h/2666722.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 232px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HRlBKK5oeWM/Ss0dfr5kpXI/AAAAAAAAACU/hn_TM91lQFc/s400/2666722.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389996759229703538" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />Most people seem to be under the impression that the cane was confined to school life. In some cases, headmasters actively encouraged parents to buy a cane for keeping good discipline at home and I for one viewed this as a very positive way that the school could actively work with parents to promote higher standards of discipline among the boys.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div face="arial" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div face="arial" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">I remember there being a fair degree of concern about the general attitude and behaviour of some of the older day pupils at the prep school that I worked at. It was felt that more needed to be done regarding communication between school and home and this, in turn, revealed just how unaware some parents were of the goings on of their sons at school.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div face="arial" style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Most parents instantly took on a look of disbelief, then horror and finally wanted to know how their boy had been brought to account. Once it was revealed that they had paid the price through a caning, the parent’s face normally fell back into a calmer look of relief that somebody had ensured he had paid the price for his behaviour. It was during just such a meeting with a parent that the kernel of an idea occurred to me. It was a certain Mrs Dawson, a mother who quite frankly admitted that, during term time and week ends, she felt beleaguered at home, having to cope with three boisterous sons and no father there to offer support.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">After hearing how her eldest had been brought to book by myself, a woman, Mrs Dawson turned to me and half jokingly said, “I don’t suppose you’d have a spare cane you could lend me?”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Both of us smiled at what she had just said and left it at that. However, Mrs Dawson had planted a kernel of an idea in my mind and it germinated and grew within me until I could hold it back no more and felt the need to make sure it was replanted in fertile ground.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">The Headmaster liked the idea and, within minutes, he was reciting a letter to his secretary that would be sent out to the parents of all pupils aged ten and upwards.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Within a few days, signed order forms and cheques were arriving in the morning post and I was particularly pleased to see that five of these came from the parents of boys in my class including one signed ‘P. Dawson’. Our suppliers were pleasingly efficient and, within a week, a large bundle of rattan canes was delivered as promised and the headmaster’s secretary spent the best part of her afternoon writing boys’ names on brown labels with string and attaching them to the crooked handles of this latest consignment of schoo</span>l canes.<br /><br />At the end of the day, I handed out the canes to each of the boys along with strict instructions that they had to bring back the labels with their parents’ signature as proof of receipt. Five very subdued-looking young lads left the classroom, each of them carrying their own cane with their name attached to its end.<span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">An After Comment</span><br /><br />In many cases, it was Matron who promoted the idea of the school supplying the boys' parents with canes since she was more concerned with their general upbringing and wanted to ensure that boundaries existed both at school AND home in their lives. Moreover, they wanted to make sure that it was the cane in particular that was used as the principal tool of punishment rather than the father's belt since the cane is much less likely to cause actual harm to a boy. Therefore, to a large degree it was Matron's natural concern for the boys in her charge that would lead her to making sure as far as possible that each boy's parents had a cane at their disposal for maintaining the necessary standards of discipline that we required of boys back in those days.<br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8732875934038461471.post-30018588167111440352009-10-03T13:36:00.000-07:002009-10-07T13:54:06.623-07:00Matron Philips - The Netball Tournament<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Part I</span></span><br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >When Mayhew left the dorm and made his way through the corridors of the school, his mind was enveloped by the intense burning sensation in his palms and bottom. He held both hands awkwardly before him and occasionally drew them near to his mouth in a desperate attempt to placate the caustic stinging, using the moisture of his mouth to help soothe away a little of the agony. The lines of pure fire where Matron’s cane had scourged Mayhew’s bottom had exploded into a stinging symphony of pain that relentlessly chided his whole being. At one point, Mayhew could simply bare it no more. He stopped in the middle of the school corridor, leant against a wall and gave in to the terrible stinging sensation; boy after boy walked by the hunched figure, eyes closed and nursing its hands as it groaned pitiably and let the world pass it by on its way to the first of the afternoon’s lessons.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Mayhew!” a prefect with laughter in his voice stooped over the pain ridden hunched third former and chanted his name a few more times. “Mayhew . . . Mayhew . . . Mayhew.” Still there was no response. “MAYHEW!” the prefect bellowed into the third former’s ear who, in turn, jumped to attention. “It’s time to get your pathetic stinging little arse to your next lesson, Mayhew,” said the prefect who then brought both hands up to his mouth and chuckled with glee as he mimicked the third former’s predicament by pretending to slaver his palms with his tongue. “I hear Matron Phil wasn’t too pleased with your troops, Mayhew. Never mind, I’m sure they’ll do better next time.”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Yes, Pritchard,” was Mayhew’s only response to the 17-year old prefect whom he was obliged to respect.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Pritchard snorted down his nose, secretly disappointed at the third former’s lack of response.<br /><br />“Listen here, Mayhew, you pathetic little tow rag. I’ve got a job for you to do for me. Get your puny little whipped arse over to </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1><st1><span style="font-family:Arial;">Marlborough</span></st1></st1></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" > senior dorm straight after prep this evening. If you’re not there, I’ll string you up by the fucking goolies; do you understand me, you little snot-nosed twerp?”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Yes, Pritchard,” replied Mayhew with equal respect as the first time.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Good!” stated the prefect. “Now get to your lesson, Mayhew.”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Thank you, Pritchard.” And, at that, Mayhew made his way along the school corridor, hoping that his masters would allow him to stand throughout the lessons that afternoon.<br /><br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Part II</span></span><br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >As the afternoon lessons wore to a weary end for the day, the acute pain had turned itself into an uncomfortable warm glow that was bearable provided nothing touched his afflicted areas. After the lessons had finished, Mayhew met his young pack members who feted him as a hero, gasped with undiluted awe as he described the searing agonies of Matron Philips’s whiplash prep school cane and vowed sincerely to drill with absolute military precision during Friday afternoon cadet parade and to never ever let their captain down.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Bishop broke into song at one point, singing “For he’s a jolly good fellow” and ending what fast became a spontaneous group rendition with “Three cheers for Mayhew, hip hip hooray!”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Mayhew was genuinely touched by it all. He was now what Matron Philips had intended him to be; an officer and a gentleman, a leader of men, a man willing to sacrifice personal comfort for those who followed him. By the evening, the aftermath of the caning had lulled into a dull aching soar that now throbbed faintly in the back of his mind. Once prep was finished, Mayhew headed towards </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1><st1><span style="font-family:Arial;">Marlborough</span></st1></st1></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" > senior dorm, he took a short cut which led around the edge of the large school playing field. As he walked towards the far end, where the old cricket pavilion stood, a gust of wind caused the end of his school tie to lift over his blazer lapels and flutter around his shoulders and dance freely in the evening air. As it furled and twisted and fluttered near to his face, Mayhew caught glimpses of the repeated school emblems and coloured stripes upon its surface. The young boy suddenly felt a deep sense of pride to be wearing it and remembered how Matron Philips had firmly secured its knot against the crisp white collar of his school shirt. As he walked on, Mayhew let his tie flutter in the wind and enjoyed the feeling it inspired in him; he felt as a knight at a jousting tournament who wears the colours of a beautiful lady.<br /><br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Part III</span></span><br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1><st1><span style="font-family:Arial;">Marlborough</span></st1></st1></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" > senior dorm had a decidedly different atmosphere to the one Mayhew was accustomed to in Wellington House. Pritchard and his band of sixth formers had no Matron Philips to watch out for and felt free to laugh, put feet on chairs and sit back as they pleased.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Ah Mayhew!” Pritchard called out with mockery in his voice. “I thought you’d make it somehow.”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >The young third former felt ill at ease within the world of the senior dorm and stood there frozen, only daring to move when a prefect ordered him to do so.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“This is Mayhew everyone!” Pritchard announced to the other older boys. “He’s come to do me a little job.”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Good for you, Mayhew,” called out one of Pritchard’s friends who sat astride a wooden chair with his arms leaning on the top of its backrest. “Do you know what you’ve got to do?”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Mayhew returned a look of polite puzzlement. “See those shoes?” said Pritchard pointing to a long line of black school regulation shoes. “You’ll find the polish is already there along with an apron. Should be about your size, Mayhew, you are skinny little runt size, aren’t you?”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Yes, Pritchard,” Mayhew answered without the merest sign of complaint in his voice just before removing his blazer, tying his apron and shining the first of many pairs. The older boys laughed a lot at Pritchard’s nasty joke and, as he polished his way through the older boys’ shoes, the small third former could not help but notice the way they seemed to giggle, sometimes quite uncontrollably, at what seemed to him, the merest of things. The boy astride the chair laughed the most and, after a while, Mayhew began to wonder why they found some things so hilariously funny. He listened sometimes with interest and sometimes with puzzlement as they mentioned the excellence of ‘doors’ and what seemed to be about ‘babies that come and light fires’.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Pritchard, however, was especially happy. He and a select few handpicked prefects were participating in what can only be best described as the most enviable event for any sixth form boy; travelling to Hamilton Towers Girls’ School and spectating the senior girls’ netball tournament. The scheme had been conceived a couple of years back by Mr Summers, a junior PE master who, wishing to ‘make his mark in the school’, actively sought to establish links with other schools. The link with </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1><st1><span style="font-family:Arial;">Hamilton</span></st1><span style="font-family:Arial;"> </span><st1><span style="font-family:Arial;">Towers</span></st1></st1></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" > soon became extraordinarily popular all round whereby girls travelled over to watch the boys play rugby who would later return the favour by enthusiastically cheering on their girl counterparts during their netball matches.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Of course, Pritchard crowed to the others and soon started to talk about a girl called Alison whom, from what Mayhew could gather, he sneaked off with to the back of the changing shed whilst everyone else’s attention was sharply focussed on the netball team in front.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“This time, I’m making damn sure she does it properly,” said Pritchard who raised his hand to his mouth and pretended to suck something in. “She just takes it a little bit down and nothing much happens.”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Mayhew found what he heard faintly disturbing, but carried on with his polishing uninterrupted until he had finished the very last pair. “Good work, Mayhew,” the senior boys commended him and looked genuinely pleased to see how well polished their shoes really were. “You can go, Mayhew,” said one of them. At that, Mayhew politely bid them good night and quietly left </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1><st1><span style="font-family:Arial;">Marlborough</span></st1></st1></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" > senior dorm.<br /><br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Part IV</span></span><br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >The boys arrived early and found places to sit and relax on the newly mown grass which surrounded the netball court. Pritchard sat towards the back of the others and waited with thumping anticipation in his heart. Alison was a year older than him; she was in her last year of school and very determined to try out anything new that came her way in this life. His heart nearly skipped a beat when the first girls started to arrive in small groups, smiling and plainly happy to know the boys were there, yet mindful to not let this become too noticeable. Pritchard craned his neck to see behind them, to see around them and to see if she was amongst them; he soon grew anxious, frustrated, then bitter when she failed to show. A few minutes later, both netball teams assembled, took their positions and stood poised, motionless yet very ready, as they waited for their PE mistress’s whistle to finally blow. The whistle blew and, with it the match began; boys clapped and cheered, girls giggled and looked around. Meanwhile, Pritchard buried his face into his hands wondering why she hadn’t come.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Pritchard!” hearing his name from behind, he instantly twisted himself around and, there above him stood Alison. The 18-year old looked pristinely feminine in a strictly girls’ school type of way in her sharply pleated grey skirt, knee length white socks and green school tie with its Hamilton Towers yellow stripes neatly worn against her clean white and very formal-looking blouse as per exact school regulation.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Aren’t you even going to say hello to me, Pritchard!” she said with a strong hint of severity in her clear upper class English voice. “Well, Pritchard!” she said, this time placing both hands on her hips and frowning demonstrably.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Hello, Alison,” the boy finally replied. Alison had little time for small talk and simply commanded the boy with a curt “Follow me” and led the way towards the changing shed behind which she sat down and invited Pritchard to sit beside her. “Good,” she said, “Nobody saw us. Did you bring it?”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“I might have done!” the boy said teasingly.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Pritchard!” the girl called out with faked annoyance in her voice. She then clasped one hand behind the boy’s neck, pulled his face towards hers, “Kiss me, you rat bag!” she said to him before biting part of his lower lip and then joining her lips to his for as long as the boy could hold his breath.<br /><br />“You get better every time, Pritchard!” she said after releasing him from her clutches. “Now where is it?”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Pritchard delved into the inside pocket of his schoolboy blazer and fished out a long, slender and not unskilfully made joint. He lit it and then drew in two or three long heavy dregs of blue aromatic smoke which he held in for as long as possible. “Now you must remember to always hold it in for as long as possible or else you won’t . . .”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><span> </span>“Good boy!” she exclaimed without letting him finish his sentence. “Now, give it to me!” Alison took the joint from out of his hand, lifted it towards her mouth, closed her lips around its end, but never drew it in. At that precise moment, the young girl slowly looked up and then focussed her eyes somewhere beyond Pritchard’s shoulder. This made the boy turn to see what it was. There standing before them was a young woman in a navy blue netball skirt and PE top. It was Miss Newman, one of Alison’s PE teachers.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Stand up!” commanded Miss Newman who gathered the evidence from the ground and stubbed it out against the changing room shed. Both stood to attention and waited for Miss Newman to speak.<br /><br />“Tuck your blouse in, girl.” Alison immediately did as she was told and quickly straightened her tie which was the automatic response of girls at </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1><st1><span style="font-family:Arial;">Hamilton</span></st1><span style="font-family:Arial;"> </span><st1><span style="font-family:Arial;">Towers</span></st1></st1></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" > whenever confronted by a mistress’s authority.<span> </span>Right from her first day at school, she had been inculcated with the notion that a smart, tidy appearance equates to a smart, tidy mind and that very correct uniform would somehow placate those who held authority over her. She nudged Pritchard to do likewise; he did the same and quickly buttoned up his blazer in the same vain.<br /><br />“That’s better!” remarked the PE teacher who then glared at the pair of them and literally marched them like soldiers towards the school building. “One, two . . . One, two . . . Left, right . . . Left, right,” barked Mrs Newman until they reached the school gym where they were left to stand in silence until ordered otherwise.<br /><br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Part V</span></span><br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Matron Philips was bemused at first. Why had the headmaster chosen her, a non-teaching member of staff, a lowly house matron of just twenty years old to discuss such a profoundly serious crisis as drugs at the school? “We need someone young,” he had explained. “Someone to whom they might relate!”<br /><br />Matron Philips nodded each time the headmaster spoke.<br /><br />“A good school can always be rebuilt, but its good name is quite a different matter, Miss Philips.”<br /><br />As he spoke, both shuddered at the alternative; sixth formers expelled, headlines in newspapers, anxious parents telephoning, benefactors withdrawing their sons along with their handsome cheques made out to princely sums.<br /><br />“Precisely, Miss Philips. We must always think of what is good for our pupils and consider their needs first. The headmistress at the girls’ school agrees; both these youngsters have bright futures ahead of them; this is why silence is the word, my dear Miss Philips!”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Matron Philips was to make her way straight to </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1><st1><span style="font-family:Arial;">Hamilton</span></st1><span style="font-family:Arial;"> </span><st1><span style="font-family:Arial;">Towers</span></st1></st1></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" > and hold a ‘drugs awareness session’ with the boy and girl in question. “Make it such that neither would dare touch it again, Miss Philips,” explained the headmaster just before she left the Victorian style oak panelled study. “Aversion therapy, if you will, Miss Philips. Yes, exactly that. Aversion therapy is just what is needed here!”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Of course, Matron Philips was the ideal candidate for the job. Her presence at the school would be low key due to her position, being young herself would give her message more credibility and being a woman, she could deal with both the boy and the girl at the same time. She soon arrived at </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1><st1><span style="font-family:Arial;">Hamilton</span></st1><span style="font-family:Arial;"> </span><st1><span style="font-family:Arial;">Towers</span></st1></st1></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" > suitably dressed for the ‘drugs awareness session’. A few girls saw her walk by, but thought nothing of it. After all, everyone had seen a ‘nurse’ before.<br /><br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Part VI</span><br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >After marching them into the school gym, Mrs Newman saw to it that both boy and girl stood in absolute and total silence for a full hour before the door opened again. Pritchard blanched when Matron Philips walked through it. Alison could feel his horror and noted how very fearfully he surveyed the young woman in her nurse-like matron’s uniform, tightly tied back hair and sensible lace up shoes. Utter silence befell the hall. As Matron Philips walked up to them, Alison noted how Pritchard immediately stood yet more rigidly to attention and quickly lowered his eyes in total deference to the Matron who now stood before them. She walked past them, turned around and walked back again. With each step taken, her nylon stockings swished inaudibly against her impeccably well-pressed blue uniform. Finally, she walked behind the pair and, from there, began to speak to them.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Pritchard!” she pronounced the boy’s surname with a clipped proficiency that could have cut the very finest of glassware. “Drugs kill. Did you know that, Pritchard?”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Yes, Mam!”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Good!” commended the house matron. “And who is this?”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Alison Chatterton,” said the girl.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Did I ask you to talk, girl?” snapped the boys’ school matron.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“No, Mam,” quickly replied Alison who now felt herself automatically jerk to attention every time the matron spoke.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Then keep quiet until you’re spoken to, Chatterton.”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Yes, Mam!” replied the schoolgirl.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Matron Philips fell silent for a moment, preferring to remain behind them for a few moments longer. For those few fleeting seconds, she was actually fazed. At eighteen, Alison was not so much younger than herself, a mere couple of years in fact; only their clothes distinguished who was what – change them over and roles would too easily be reversible. The young matron quickly banished these thoughts from her mind, feigned a sigh and started to speak.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Chatterton,” she said with total authority in her voice. “Fetch me those two chairs and place back to back there in the middle of the gym.”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Alison snapped too it. She found two chairs in an adjacent back room and, one by one, set them as instructed. Once her job was done, she looked over to the matron and, suddenly, horror filled her eyes. Pritchard looked, silently gulped, then recoiled with the same abject horror. There, in both hands, Matron Philips was now holding her slender prep school cane which was bent into a definite arc. As she gently flexed the arc of the cane inwards and outwards, she looked at Alison and then began to speak. “Drugs kill!” she said with slow deliberation in her voice. “What do drugs do, Chatterton?”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Alison simply stared back. For a moment, she was transfixed, disbelieving; she thought of running, of begging, of fighting, of screaming. She even thought of dying there and then on the very spot in the middle of the school gym; she now suddenly realised why she had just been made to set up the chairs. “They kill, Mam!” she finally replied as a terrible trembling anguish gripped her body.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Yes,” stated Matron Philips. “And they also ruin lives, people’s reputations and, most importantly of all, those of schools.” Alison nodded forlornly as the matron continued to speak. “Now sit down on that chair,” Matron Philips then gestured towards the chair and Alison quickly did as she was told and continued to listen. “In a few moments, young lady, you are going to hear the consequences of a rather stupid boy’s actions. He is going to be one of my boys from now on, under my command, living in my dorm and answering to me at all times until he leaves his school. You will hear him receiving his first lesson as one of my boys; you will hear him learning about consequences, you will hear him learning about the expectations and values of his new house matron. For him, it’s going to be a very hard and exacting lesson. However, you will see nothing and, most importantly of all, you will say nothing of what has happened today, not now, not tomorrow, not next year, not ever. Do you understand me, young lady?”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Yes, Mam!” came the girl’s reply as she averted her gaze and looked outwards from her chair.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Matron Philips looked over to the boy, flexed her supple whiplash cane between her fingers and called him to take position at the other chair.<br /><br />“Pritchard,” commanded his new house matron, “Trousers off!”<br /><br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Part VII</span></span><br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >These two words struck terror into the boy’s heart. They clearly stated Matron Philips intentions for him; to make the caning as painful as possible. Pritchard felt horribly vulnerable; his backside was now totally exposed (bar a pair of flimsy cotton underpants) to the full force of each burning swipe that his matron would choose to administer to him. In his mind, he searched for any way out. Yet, unsurprisingly, his search was in vain; all that he could find was utter helplessness and the hopeful notion that only through totally co-operating with the caning process might he persuade his new mistress to show at least some clemency in appreciation of this fact. With this in mind, Pritchard straightened both legs and made sure that his bottom was a perfect target for the matron. Matron Philips then locked onto her target and smited it with stinging proficiency.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Matron Philips’s first swipe created a resounding ‘crack’ that echoed throughout the gym and caused Alison to jolt in her chair. Pritchard released a tiny gasp which hugely underrated the sheer agony that he felt as it landed. Matron Philips waited a full fifteen or even twenty seconds between each swipe to allow the burning sensation to spread across the boy’s backside before compounding the pain with yet more pain. The caustic stinging raged across both buttocks and, after a couple more swipes, Pritchard was becoming conscious of two things – his new house matron and the searing agony that was her lesson to him.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >During the early stages, Pritchard had held valiantly to his image of Alison. He resolved to do so no matter what, no matter how unbearable the pain was likely to become, it was always to be for her; a powerful token from boy to girl that could never be broken from within. But each of Matron’s swipes brought yet more pain than the last. Before long, Pritchard began to hear his own voice reverberating around the gym. The relentless stroke of his house matron’s thin whip-like cane brought the boy to the point where all inhibition was lost; he yelped, gasped plaintively, blubbered through tears of remorse and finally yielded to the power of his matron’s cane. He cried out for pity. At this point he had forsaken Alison’s image completely and, in his mind, he could only see the neat, primly dressed school matron who now had him completely at her command. Pritchard finally yielded. His lesson had been learnt and Matron Philips took one last well aimed swipe and stopped.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Put your trousers on,” Matron Philips’s command was gentle compared to before and Pritchard gratefully did as he was told. He offered his hands to her which she smited with the tapered end of her cane. Its tip lashed against the surface of each palm and left a thin red line which stung atrociously. The boy hunched his back holding both hands beneath his armpits as he sobbed pitifully in front of his new house matron. In his mind, he vowed never to disappoint her again and to prove his obedience to her straight away.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“This is a boy who has learnt his lesson,” she announced, inviting Alison to turn around and behold the spectacle. “You see, Chatterton.” She continued with remarkable calm in her voice. “They all need the same thing; they need to know who is boss. In that way, they can be more easily instructed and guided in the right ways. All of my boys need to be reminded of this at one time or other.”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >Then, as Alison watched on, Matron Philips went up to Pritchard and spoke to him softly, tutting and repeating his name gently, “Oh Pritchard, Pritchard, Pritchard. I’m sorry that it had to happen, but you only have yourself to blame, young man!” She then straightened his tie and attended to the lapels of his school blazer, stood back a pace and quickly admired how splendidly smart he now looked.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >“Come on, Pritchard. It’s time to go.”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" ><o> </o></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >And, at that, Matron Philips left as her new boy followed quickly behind.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8732875934038461471.post-40911992960537063782009-10-02T14:06:00.000-07:002009-10-07T14:10:46.046-07:00The Head Girl<div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">Here is a little story I once received from an acquaintance. It illustrates very well the kind of power that a head boy or head girl had over juniors where the right to slipper juniors was granted to the in some schools in </span><st1><st1><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">England</span></st1></st1><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">.<o></o></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o></o></span> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style="">__________________________________________________________<br /><br /></span> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">I know that 12-year old brothers are annoying, especially to older sisters when they invite their friends around and little brother plays up. But it was only so that he would get noticed!<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">My sister was in the sixth form at the same school and she was best friends with Sarah Jenkins who was incidentally the head girl. At school, she wore a little red badge in the shape of a shield on the lapel of her blazer and had the reputation of being a thoroughly responsible girl and good in nearly everything. She was tall with long blond hair as well as being well spoken and confident with it.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">When she came round to see my sister, I used to lie in wait. I loved annoying them, it was good sport. Squirting water on their heads from my bedroom window as they left to see some boys, putting butter on the handle to my sister’s bedroom door are just a few of the ways I amused myself at their expense. They, on the other hand, were usually not amused at all and I should have paid much closer attention when Sarah told my sister, promised her in fact, that she would see to it that I would pay dearly when I made snow come in late June with a packet of flour which accidentally fell out of my hands and landed on Sarah’s head!<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">That was on a Saturday back in 1975 and by the next Monday morning, I had forgotten all about it. Unfortunately, Sarah had not. It was during lunch time when I was meandering along a small path that led to the playground that I saw her coming the other way. It meant squeezing past her and instead she blocked my way and stood over me (she was a great deal taller than I was at that time).<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Andrew!” she said with a look of seriousness in her eyes, “Do your tie up and your top button with it.”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">I co-operated knowing that she was head girl after all and head girls did have some power over us juniors.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“And sort your blazer out,” she added.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">I tried my best to turn back lapels, straighten my uniform out and then hopefully be able to move on. I was beginning to not like the expression on Sarah’s face, a faint glint lurked in her eye, as though something had been pre-planned.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Here let me help you,” she said with feigned exasperation in her voice. With that, she thrust a hand into my blazer pocket and instantly removed it again, with a small packet of Embassy Number Ones in it. I looked at her with utter consternation in my eyes.<br /><br />“And what’s this?” she enquired as she held the packet up to my face. “You’d better come with me, Andrew. I think we’ve got a lot that needs sorting out!”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">I followed Sarah, wondering how in Heaven’s name the cigarettes had got into my pocket. It was obviously a plant, but from whom? I could only guess that it was my sister. But, apparently, I was wrong about that and shall never quite know who planted those cigarettes upon me.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Sarah led me into the school gym. It was empty and smelled faintly of old socks. “Andrew,” she said looking at me, “Get into your PE kit now!” she ordered.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">I looked back at Sarah enquiringly. “But I haven’t got it with me!”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Sarah walked over to a wooden bench where there was a single large gym shoe and a PE bag sitting on top of it, my PE bag in fact!<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">She slung it over to me. I caught the bag clumsily in my arms and then protested.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“This isn’t fair!” I said loudly to her. The echo of my voice was immediately added to by the sound of footsteps, a teacher’s footsteps. From nowhere, Mr Malden, my PE teacher walked in to the gym. He smiled benevolently at Sarah and then scowled at me. He had never liked me and I could see that I was now in a trap.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Hello Sir!” Sarah said to the teacher. “Just dealing with Andrew . . . I hope you don’t mind me coming into your gym, Sir.”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Sarah was all but fluttering her eyelids as she spoke. Mr Malden cleared his throat and then smiled back at Sarah, not forgetting to send me another quick scowl of disapproval as her looked round.<br /><br />“No worries, Sarah – you’ve got your duties as a head girl to be getting on with.” he said as eh turned towards the door and began to leave.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Thank you, Mr Malden,” Sarah replied.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Mr Malden stopped for a second and glanced back towards the wooden bench. “Don’t forget to put it back where you found it, will you now, Sarah,” he said as all eyes rested upon the large gym shoe sat next to where my PE bag had just been.<br /><br />“And as for you, Andrew,” he added with disdain in his voice, “I’m leaving you in her charge and if there’s any trouble you’ll have me to deal with – is that clear?”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Yes, Sir!” I replied, but he didn’t hear since he was already gone.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">I finally did as I was told. I quickly changed into my PE kit and stood before Sarah.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Sarah pointed to the climbing bars on the side of the gym and showed me that I needed to bend over and place my hands on the lower rungs with my bottom pointing outwards. I got the idea. I glanced fearfully at the large gym shoe and then did as |I was told once again. Once in position, I felt exposed and anxious. Sarah picked up the show and moved towards me. She tapped it gently against my backside a couple of times and began to speak.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Yes, Andrew,” she said half laughing, “You’ve been set up. So let’s get to why you’re really here. I’m going to give you the thrashing of a lifetime with this gym shoe and, oh yes, this is going to hurt you a lot more than it’s going to hurt me!”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">With that she placed a mighty whack across my bottom and I gasped. It hurt a lot, a lot more than I had imagined it would and I looked around and exclaimed, “For God’s sake, Sarah!”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Sarah saw the look of anguish in my face and shrugged her shoulders and then smiled.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Oh dear, Andrew,” she said as she began to remove her school blazer with the shield on its lapel. “I was just warming up. You do know that I’m a brilliant tennis player don’t you?” she said menacingly.<br /><br />Sarah then rolled up the sleeve of her right arm, stepped back a good few paces and ran up like to me at full pelt placing an almighty thwack upon my backside.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">A terrific yelp emanated from me and reverberated around the empty gym. Being under Sarah’s charge was proving to be a very unpleasant experience and I was panicking inside.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“God, I’m sorry, Sarah,” I pleaded back to her. “I’ve learnt my lesson, I know what you’re doing and I won’t annoy you and my sister ever again . . . I promise!”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Sarah made no reaction. She walked back up to me and laid a volley of three thwacks upon my backside in fast succession. I cried out as loudly as anyone could and the moaned pitifully as I felt the harshness of Sarah’s stinging gym shoe spread across my buttocks.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Sarah continued for a fair while. One thwack was laid upon another. I closed my eyes and took my medicine, vowing to never cross her or my sister again. Through the pain, however, I appreciated that I had gone too far in annoying the girls, that they had deserved more respect and with the kind of whacking skills Sarah was inflicting on me, I hardly had any other choice than to show her all the respect I could.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">When Sarah had finally finished with me, she let me change back into my school uniform for afternoon lessons and, after checking that I looked neat and tidy, she sent me away with my hands held over a pair of burning cheeks. That next Saturday, Sarah stayed for dinner. I was very polite to her and my sister was genuinely surprised by my change in attitude towards her best friend. She hadn’t known a thing, and she never did find out.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o><span style=""> </span></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">As far as my sister is concerned, her little brother just became more respectful over night.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8732875934038461471.post-2160404521926900652009-10-01T14:42:00.000-07:002009-10-07T15:09:55.651-07:00Matron Philips - A Battle of Wills<div style="text-align: justify;"><br />For some boys, a caning did have one positive side to it; it could serve as a chance to prove themselves. Surviving a full six with a veteran house master or the headmaster himself without crying out was considered a feat quite unparalleled in nature and stood as a proud testimony to a boy's resilience and toughness. It required a tremendous measure of stamina and dogged determination to be sure. In some cases, a caning could become a veritable battle of wills between master and boy which would be played out in earnest within the confines of the master's study. The boy had six long harsh strokes to endure and his master had just six chances to prove his point.<br /><br />Matron Philips had her fair share of such canings. She didn't like them one little bit, but realised that it had to be done and I remember her telling me about one case in particular which, for one reason or other, had always stuck in her mind.<br /><br />She had explained to me that Parker had joined the school at fifteen. He had been at a state school up to then and viewed his new school with a mixture of quiet bemusement and barely hidden derision. He viewed the other boys as a bunch of effete toffs and their teachers as uppity fools - he thought he was tougher, more street wise and could take it on and win. Matron Philips specifically requested for Parker to be allocated to her dormitory and soon found herself feeling deeply concerned about the boy's attitude, not only towards her, but also towards his masters and fellow pupils.<br /><br />Things came to a head during Thursday afternoon double French. To cut a long story short, Parker showed disrespect to Miss Glade, his French mistress. He failed to stand when she entered the room at the beginning of the lesson and clearly intimated that learning French was not a priority for him when the mistress asked him why he had done no work at the end of it.<br /><br />Miss Glade, being somewhat new to the profession, tried the softly softly approach and even went so far as to invite the obstreperous boy to sit down after the lesson in order to speak one to one with him.<br /><br />"I know that I can't make you like my subject," she explained to him with a high degree of compassion behind her words. "But really, Parker. I am afraid that I am going to have to allocate you a detention if this sort of thing goes on, you know!"<br /><br />Parker failed to give the expected "Yes, Mam" as was customary for boys who respect a teacher's authority and shrugged his shoulders instead. As a result Miss Glade set the detention as promised and dismissed him curtly, barely disguising her feelings of personal disappointment as she did so.<br /><br />Once the news reached Matron Philips's ears, she made her way straight to the French mistress's classroom and spoke to the young teacher.<br /><br />Miss Glade looked up straight away and smiled when the Matron entered the room. They were about the same age, but the Matron naturally assumed the role of an older <span style="font-style: italic;">confidante </span>and pulled herself out a chair and began to speak.<br /><br />"I have come to see you about one of my boys, Miss Glade," she said.<br /><br />Quite obviously, Miss Glade knew precisely to which boy she was referring and immediately said his name. "Oh you mean, Parker, Miss Philips," she exclaimed rolling her eyes in feigned despair.<br /><br />"Precisely," answered the Matron in a clipped tone of voice. "I am highly concerned by the boy's attitude, Miss Glade, and felt that you could do with some advice on how to handle such boys."<br /><br />Miss Glade tried her best to hide her annoyance at Matron's interference and tried to brush the matter aside.<br /><br />"It has all been dealt with, Miss Philips," she retorted somewhat loftily, but without quite managing to sound convincing enough.<br /><br />"Oh really!" said Matron who then stepped forward a pace and smiled sardonically. "Maybe according to some criteria, but most definitely not according the criteria of this school, Miss Glade. Indeed," continued Matron Philips, "We expect high standards in all areas, Miss Glade, and respect for a teacher's authority ranks highest among them."<br /><br />Miss Glade made no reply; she simply stared back at the Matron and let her continue.<br /><br />"I am putting you in charge of Parker," she announced quite unexpectedly. "How do you like the sound of that, Miss Glade?"<br /><br />Miss Glade looked back quizzically and found herself quite unable to reply.<br /><br />"But first of all, I shall see to it personally that he learns to accept you as his mistress and know exactly where he stands."<br /><br />Matron Philips suddenly walked hurriedly towards the classroom door and called in a boy who was passing at that time. "Barret!" she called, "I would like you to come in here for a moment, if you please."<br /><br />The boy, who was in the same year as Parker, immediately did as he was told and stood before both Matron and Miss Glade. Anxiety turned to relief as soon as Matron spoke.<br /><br />"No need to worry, Barret!" she said with a faint smile, "Miss Glade wants you to fetch the new boy, Parker for her. I should think that you will find him in the dinning hall or there abouts."<br /><br />Once Barret had departed upon his errand, Matron Philips smiled at Miss Glade and then left the classroom without uttering a word.<br /><br />Miss Glade felt anxious after Matron had left. A few minutes later, Barret had already returned with a sullen looking Parker in tow. She had absolutely no idea of what to do and gestured for him to take a chair and sit down. She briefly searched through her mind for something to say and then noticed that Barret was still standing in the room, dutifully waiting to be dismissed.<br /><br />At that very moment, Matron Philips returned. She was holding a small brown suitcase in one hand and a long slender cane in the other. Miss Glade noted Matron's supreme confidence. She also noticed how differently the two boys responded to her presence. Barret immediately stood straighter as she breezed past him and quickly checked that his tie and blazer were in order as soon as he caught sight of her nurse-like uniform. Parker, however, hardly stirred at all, let alone automatically lift himself from the chair as any other boy would have done. Matron Philips noticed this as well, but chose not to react.<br /><br />She placed the suitcase upon a desk, "Thank you, Barret. You may leave now," she said and then tapped the end of the rattan cane sharply against the top of a desk and briskly announced, "Right, Parker! I most certainly do not hold with boys sitting down when they are seemingly unable to show respect. Take that chair and place it over here, boy."<br /><br />Parker did as he was told and then looked back at Matron with a look of disdain behind his eyes. He then eyed the cane and drew in his breath. He knew it would hurt, but by the look of it and the fact it was 'only' a women who was about to wield it, he reassured himself that he would come through easily enough.<br /><br />"Over you go!" she said. "It is indeed high time that we gave you a short, sharp lesson about respect, Parker."<br /><br />Parker took up his position without uttering a word. Meanwhile, Matron Philips held the tip of her cane between thumb and forefinger and bent it down gradually as she gathered her thoughts. The silence lasted for quite a while as Miss Glade looked on. It reminded her somehow of the silence that precedes a battle. There stood Matron Philips pristinely turned out in her crisply starched nurse-like uniform, slowly flexing her English school cane in and out as she surveyed her adversary who was bent over a bare wooden classroom chair ready to endure at any moment the full force of his Matron's displeasure.<br /><br />"Lesson One," announced Matron Philips whose voice suddenly broke the silence to everyone's surprise. "Boys always answer their elders by saying 'yes, Mam'. Do you understand me, Parker?"<br /><br />Miss Glade unconsciously urged the boy to answer. But no response was offered. Parker clenched his eyes firmly shut and clenched the sides of the chair as he drew in his breath. The rattan whistled through the air behind him and swatted cleanly against his backside. A line of fire erupted there and, within seconds, a harsh stinging pain spread across the whole area. He sucked on his cheeks and absorbed the pain, managing to remain perfectly still and silent at the same time.<br /><br />"I'm terribly sorry," Matron called out, "But I cannot hear you, Parker!"<br /><br />Still no response.<br /><br />Matron Philips raised the slender rattan cane high above her head and bore it down upon him again, this time it cracked menacingly against the seat of his regulation grey trousers. Miss Glade jumped at the sound and cringed as she thought of how it must have felt. Parker felt a jolt of pure white pain piercing through his pants and nearly gasped. He felt like moaning just to release the pain, but resisted. He gritted his teeth and swore profusely at the image of Matron Philips that he now held in his mind's eye.<br /><br />Suddenly, the cane hissed through the air and scourged his backside for a third time. Parker jolted slightly, but made absolutely no sound at all.<br /><br />Miss Glade walked up to the chair and crouched down to the same level as the boy's ear. "Parker!" she whispered, "Parker! . . . Parker!" she whispered his name a few times more. Her voice was soft and kind and he appreciated the warmth behind it.<br /><br />"Yes, Miss Glade?" he said in a voice that was barely audible even to himself.<br /><br />"Look here, Parker!" continued the boy's mistress, encouraged by the response. "Matron just wants you to answer her. Come on now," she said with manufactured joviality in her voice, "I don't think that is so difficult, is it now, Parker?"<br /><br />Matron flexed her cane into a perfect arc and then stepped back a pace, still bending it back with her left hand. "Now let's see if this works, shall we, Miss Glade?"<br /><br />Miss Glade watched as Matron leapt forwards and released the end of cane and let it spring back just as its thin whip-like end landed upon Parker's backside. The boy jolted forward and then raised his head and gasped audibly. He sucked hard on his gums as Miss Glade noted a look of apoplexy in his eyes.<br /><br />"There!" announced Matron Philips, "I think that we may well be getting through to him, if I'm not mistaken, Miss Glade."<br /><br />Miss Glade stepped back again and watched as, once again, the boy's Matron bent back the cane and, this time, took a full two paces back. She pounced forward like a leopard on its prey and, immediately, Parker lurched forward and emitted a terrible wail that filled the classroom. He saw Matron Philips in his mind's eye and every thought in his head was aimed towards her, begging her to stop and pleading with her just in order to prove that he had now truly learnt his lesson and fully accepted the authority of his new masters and mistresses in his new school.<br /><br />Once again, Matron Philips stepped two paces back. As she did so, Parker gasped and raised a hand and waived it in submission. His Matron stopped. "Yes, Parker," she said quietly, "Did you want to tell me something?"<br /><br />"Yes, Mam!" came the reply.<br /><br />Matron Philips placed the rattan cane down on a desk and smiled. She said nothing as she opened the small brown suitcase she had brought in with her earlier. She laid out a pair of grey shorts, a pair of elasticated sock gaiters with ribbons in the junior school colours along with a matching junior tie.<br /><br />"Time to get changed!" she announced as Parker stood himself up and looked across to the clothes awaiting him upon the desk. He bulked at first, but seeing his Matron's cane sitting on the next desk made him immediately bite his tongue and answer with a dutiful 'Yes, Mam'.<br /><br />Parker really couldn't tell which was worse, the incessant throbbing in his backside or his new uniform. He wondered how long he would have to remain in it as he looked down in a mixture of despair and panic at his bare knees and his ribboned gaiters and thought of the incessant ribbing that most definitely awaited him outside from the other boys.<br /><br />"Now, Miss Glade," Matron Philips announced. "You must keep me informed of how he progresses over the next few weeks and, if he manages to improve his attitude and behave as a senior boy should, you might then think about allowing Parker to wear his normal uniform again." Matron Philips then smiled and left the mistress and boy alone in the room.<br /><br />"Right, Parker," announced Miss Glade as soon as Matron had gone. "You may go now."<br /><br />"Thank you, Miss Glade," came the answer. As he walked lambishly through the school corridors in his regulation shorts and junior tie, a group of first year boys walked past him with mirth in their eyes. They all exchanged glances and then laughed openly as soon as they had reached a safe distance. "Matron is making him wear it!" he overheard one of them say. "Serves him right!" replied another.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8732875934038461471.post-76036716956837583522009-10-01T14:12:00.000-07:002009-10-07T14:29:22.614-07:00The Head Girl Returns<div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"><br />I do not think we will ever fully understand the inner workings of the human psyche and they do say that we as humans are too close to it to be ever able to truly deduce the underlying rationale for our motivations. In simple terms, Andrew should have resented his slippering and the respect he held for Sarah after that should have been the false kind of respect which is, in reality, only fear alone. However, his upbringing had taught him to put a brave face on punishment and to even accept it as part and parcel of normal life. He was also a strong character and very confident in himself and was able to admire (quite unbegrudgingly) that which was stronger than himself. And, in Andrew's eyes, Sarah was just that.<br /><br />During the slippering, a large part of his will fell under the Head Girl's tutelage and, from that time onwards, he found it comforting to be able to think that he was accountable to someone and that that someone (namely Sarah) was keeping an eye on him. To everyone else in this world, Andrew was a highly independent individual who knew his own mind and who was his own man. To Sarah, however, he was always the young boy who needed her to keep him in check. Sometimes years would pass without him seeing her and, after she left school in 1976, it was not until he was in his early twenties that he would learn what she was to him.<br /><br />In his early twenties, Andrew earned a fair deal of money, drove a very nice car and was attractive to the ladies. He was married to an old school friend of Sarah's, but was not that aware they had been friends at all. His wife was a good person who did not deserve the treatment she got from him although Andrew still insists that his wife meant everything to him and it was the thrill of the chase that drove to other women than anything else. In short, he was seeing another woman and pretending to be working extra hours on a long-term project at work.<br /><br />Sarah was the one who contacted Andrew. It was a friendly call. After the initial chat about old times, she told him that she had a business proposition and that he could make his way to her house after work one evening and they could discuss it along with old times.<br /><br />When Andrew arrived at her house, he was curious to see her again. They sat down and laughed and joked for an hour. Sarah poured him a few doses of finest cognac, but hardly drank any herself. Andrew never noticed this detail. Once he was suitably sizzled, she sprung up form her chair and smiled broadly from cheek to cheek.<br /><br />"You know what, Andrew?" she said merrily clapping her hands together, "I think it's that time of night when the old photos come out!"<br /><br />Andrew laughed at her suggestion and found himself waiting for her to return to the sofa. As he waited, he felt that dull glow of muzzy well-being that only a finest of cognacs can give. He clapped his hands also when she returned with a large album and opened it on her lap and beckoned him to sit close beside her and look together.<br /><br />As Sarah slowly turned the pages, both of them smiled and laughed as they viewed old friends and once familiar faces looking out from slightly faded photos. Eventually, the familiar faces ran out and the pages now contained photos of Sarah's life after school. Suddenly, she quickly turned a page without stopping. Andrew's heart raced. Had he seen what he thought he'd seen?<br /><br />"What was that?" he said hesitantly.<br /><br />"What was what, Andrew?" Sarah replied coyly. "Oh you mean THAT!" she added after some hesitation.<br /><br />Sarah went back to the page. Andrew sat perched now on the edge of his seat. There were at least ten pictures of him, each one of them snapshots of him with somebody else!<br /><br />"You'll never change, will you, Andrew," Sarah said with a long sad sigh. "It's just as well I'm here to make sure you don't ruin everything, really. Isn't it, Andrew!"<br /><br />Andrew looked back at Sarah and squinted his eyes slightly. "How much?"<br /><br />Sarah shot up from her seat and glared back at him. Then, a smile started to emanate from her lips and she laughed out loud. It was a long, knowing laugh that made Andrew feel extremely uneasy.<br /><br />"Your life!" she finally replied in a quiet, yet perfectly audible voice. "Or rather that I have a say in it!"<br /><br />Andrew looked back puzzled.<br /><br />Sarah laughed at the expression on his face. "Dear Andrew," she said. "I'm no blackmailer, believe you me. I just know you too well, that's all. Left to your own devices you'll not only ruin your own life, but you'll have a good go at ruining everyone else's by the look of those photos!"<br /><br />Andrew panicked at the mention of the word `photos'. he began to plead that she destroy the evidence wherever it was and insisted again and again that he would become a reformed character, that he would never cheat on his wife again.<br /><br />Sarah just looked on and smiled as he spoke. When Andrew had finished talking, she stood up and looked down at him with both hands held firmly against her hips. "Too damn right, you'll never do it again!" she said with severity in her voice. She then walked over towards her dinning table and pulled out one of the wooden chairs and placed it in the middle of the room and pointed to it and looked straight back at Andrew and beckoned him with a nod of her head.<br /><br />"You know the drill, Andrew!" she said with a hint of sad resignation in her voice.<br /><br />Andrew felt as though somebody else's will had crept inside him and was now moving his body for him. He lifted himself from the sofa and walked towards the bare wooden dinning room chair. He stooped himself over and held the sides of its cushioned seat and waited. For some reason, he felt scared to leave his position and only dared to observe Sarah when he thought she was not looking.<br /><br />Sarah stood behind him and began to speak. "You don't move an inch from there until I tell you to. Is that understood, Andrew?"<br /><br />Andrew said nothing, but nodded his head very briskly. He understood perfectly well and even held his breath when he shifted his foot slightly to maintain the position more easily. His grip tightened around the edges of the chair as he thought about the photos and how Sarah could make them appear in very awkward and wholly unexpected places.<br /><br />"Good Boy!" she added in a voice that denoted approval. Andrew heard Sarah move to another part of the room and open a cupboard door. She removed something and then came back to where she had been just before. She cleared her throat gently, drew in a deep breath and began to speak once again.<br /><br />"I'm afraid that this is the only way to make you realise just how your actions might hurt those around you, Andrew. I've known you for a long time and you know just as well as I do that the only way to make you realise, I mean truly realise, is if you feel pain yourself."<br /><br />Andrew's heart pounded as he caught sight of what was in Sarah's hands.<br /><br />"Yes, Andrew," she said, noticing where he had glanced. "It's a cane, your cane, I got it especially for you and I do sincerely hope that it will help you to learn your lesson well this time."<br /><br />Sarah then slowly raised her arm back, paused for a couple of seconds and then made the cane hiss against the air as she drove it against Andrew's backside. Andrew gasped several times as though catching his breath and then muttered inaudibly under his breath as the stinging line left on his bottom smarted unbearably beneath his pants.<br /><br />"It's fortunate that I found you first, Andrew," said Sarah as she allowed Andrew a small respite. "I think you'll agree that what I'm doing to you is nothing compared to the hurt you would have caused if you had been found out. Do you understand that, Andrew?"<br /><br />"Yes, Sarah!" replied a muffled voice.<br /><br />Sarah drove in a second stroke. She managed to cause the end of the cane to whiplash against Andrew's left cheek. This time he released a very loud gasp indeed and let out a faint cry.<br /><br />"And I think you're very lucky indeed to have me there to watch over you, Andrew," she added. "You need someone who's willing to say `no', someone to make sure you understand what is acceptable and what is plainly not acceptable. And I suppose that's who I am; that person who makes sure you don't ruin everything for yourself and others."<br /><br />"Yes, Sarah!" repeated the same voice.<br /><br />Sarah drove in the cane for a third time. She delivered a blow that resounded throughout the room as it scourged both of Andrew's buttocks with an audible and high pitched crack. Andrew jolted forward as he literally yelped with pain and then groaned miserably to himself.<br /><br />"You've got a new job, Andrew!" Sarah suddenly announced with a smile. "Yes, that's right, you're coming to work for me now!"<br /><br />Andrew suddenly raised his head in surprise and began to twist himself around. But, before he even managed to lift his shoulders, the cane hissed through the air and scourged his bottom. He immediately cried out and felt as though his knees were about to give.<br /><br />"Stay put!" Sarah spat out the words with fearful anger. "I don't remember telling you that you could move, do you?"<br /><br />"I'm sorry, Sarah," the voice replied and then, perplexed by what she had just said, went on to ask, "But what do you mean that I'm coming to work for you?"<br /><br />Sarah replied in a calm voice this time. "Tomorrow, when you arrive at your present job, you will look through the trade magazine. You will find an advert in the job section, you'll know exactly which one I mean. You will send your CV to me and I shall hire you. Is that clear, Andrew?"<br /><br />"But I'm happy where I . . ."<br /><br />Andrew didn't manage to finish his sentence before the cane left yet another caustic, stinging line across his cheeks. His knees buckled slightly and his head filled with the white noise of pain.<br /><br />"I asked you," repeated Sarah, now raising her voice pointedly. "if that was clear, Andrew?"<br /><br />"Yes, Sarah!" came the reply, this time Andrew spoke a lot more hurriedly and sounded much more anxious to placate the former head girl.<br /><br />"Good!" she said approvingly. "Of course, you will receive substantially more money, a better car and all manner of incentives not normally offered by companies in these days of recession. But you will be where I need you to be, under my watchful eye and hopefully I'll be able to keep you out of trouble's way, Andrew!"<br /><br />Andrew closed his eyes and grimaced. The stinging in his bottom and Sarah's voice were the only two things that counted at that moment. He knew he had little choice other than to accept the job and accept that Sarah was to be his boss from this time forward. He knew that she would deliver him the full six and resigned himself to the inevitable fact.<br /><br />Sarah flexed the cane in both hands and eyed Andrew's bottom at the same time. She then let go of its end and allowed the cane to spring back into its normal shape. She raised her arm and let it hiss through the air, it whacked across both cheeks. Andrew shouted at the top of his voice as both legs jolted his backside upwards. She then immediately hurled the cane back again and drove it in as hard as she could. Andrew wailed pitifully, bent his knees and slumped himself against the chair, muttering and moaning to himself.<br /><br />Sarah looked down at him, pleased that he had learnt his lesson. Then, a few moments later, she gently touched his shoulder and told him that he could get up.<br /><br />"Congratulations, Andrew. You've got the job!" she said somewhat ironically.<br /><br />Andrew made no reply. He pushed himself onto his legs and walked slowly towards the sofa and laid himself down on it belly down of course and groaned a little.<br /><br />"And if I see you with anyone else other than your poor wife, it won't be with your trousers on next time, Andrew," she said quietly as she poured him a cognac and pushed it into his hand.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8732875934038461471.post-26906657452311691532009-09-30T15:11:00.000-07:002009-10-07T15:16:03.140-07:00The Maths Test<div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />Miss Rogers was quite appalled by the boys' results and knew that they could better. The lesson after there test, they filed into her classroom and stood behind their desks, knowing that this was going to be most certainly a tough one to get through.<br /><br />"Good morning, boys," said Miss Rogers in a surprisingly calm tone from her position at the very front of the classroom.<br /><br />"Good morning, Miss Rogers," the class chanted back in subdued unison.<br /><br />"Be seated!"<br /><br />For a brief moment, chairs scraped, satchels opened and hands placed book, pens and mathematical sets before them on their desks. Soon after, each boy sat bolt upright, anxiously awaiting his teacher's next command.<br /><br />Miss Rogers said nothing. She walked slowly towards her desk, picked up a pile of marked test papers and walked around the room tossing them onto desks willy nilly with a look of pure disgust written across her face. The last paper fluttered onto the floor and the boy quickly stooped to pick it up as though it were all his fault.<br /><br />"Question one," snapped the teacher's voice. "How do we work out the area of a triangle?"<br /><br />Miss Rogers looked around in silence with renewed disgust as she saw but one solitary hand dared raise itself into the air.<br /><br />"Yes, Ballard!" she said, "I'd like you to tell me the first step that one must undertake."<br /><br />Ballard spoke with a palpable tremble to his voice as the rest of the class looked straight forward towards Miss Rogers.<br /><br />"Erm, you make a box, Miss?" he asked tentatively.<br /><br />"Hmmm," replied Miss Rogers, rather unconvinced by the boy's mathematical terminology. She then surveyed the rest of the class and grinned sardonically when she saw that not one eye dared meet her gaze. She then walked to the blackboard, drew a rough triangle and a box around it.<br /><br />"Dixon!" she suddenly called out as she turned back towards the class, "And what do you think we should do with Ballard's box?"<br /><br />"I don't know, Miss," he replied honestly, "Put a stamp on it and send it first class to Timbuktu?"<br /><br />A subdued wave of laughter broke out across the classroom, but instantly died away as soon as the boys noticed what Miss Rogers was doing. Dixon looked all around him, he gulped and felt a flush of panic sweep across his brow.<br /><br />"I'm sorry, Miss," he said quietly as she turned from her cupboard door with a thin, slender cane in her hand. "I can assure you that it will nev . . . ."<br /><br />"Quiet boy!" she said in a calm, matter of fact voice. "Put your hand out and hold it there."<br /><br />Miss Rogers walked towards Dixon who, in turn, stood up from his chair and stretched his hand outwards towards his mistress. He turned his head to one side and winced his eyes shut as the mathematics teacher raised the cane and paused for a moment as she eyed the tender palm that awaited it below.<br /><br />The cane sang as it sailed through the air. It was a neat, clinical shot that left a clear red line across the palm of the boy's hand. Dixon released a high pitched gasp as the cane landed and, instantly, lifted his smited hand to his mouth in a desperate attempt to quench the powerful stinging sensation that blighted his hand.<br /><br />As Dixon sat down, he groaned silently and continued to nurse his hand; as he did so, he rocked backwards and forwards slightly and closed his eyes to endure the pain.<br /><br />"Edwards!" said Miss Rogers still with her cane in her hand. "Maybe you'd like to enlighten us in regards to Ballard's box!"<br /><br />Edwards blanched visibly and stammered something quite inaudible.<br /><br />"Bishop? . . . Pickford? . . . Crawford? . . . Turner? . . ." Miss Rogers asked every boy in the class until, finally, she took the cane in both hands and flexed it into a perfect arc and began to speak again.<br /><br />"You all have ten minutes to find out the correct answers from your books," she suddenly announced as she let the cane spring back again in her hand. "Then we shall start again and if, at the end of the lesson, I am not fully satisfied by your effort, then I am sure that poor Dixon here can testify to the unpleasantness that will follow!"<br /><br />The class looked over towards poor Dixon who was now caressing his hand beneath his arm and still moaning inaudibly. The very sight of this made each and every boy suddenly reach for his text book, open it and feverishly flick its pages back and forth as Miss Rogers looked over them with a distant grin of professional satisfaction cast upon her lips.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8732875934038461471.post-27781395350082486032009-09-29T15:16:00.000-07:002009-10-07T15:35:58.044-07:00The Making of Barrett<div style="text-align: justify;"><br />Albeit rare, public canings were not unheard of and an example that always springs to my mind was during a junior assembly when the lady in charge of the junior house, I had recently taken up a position in, took the boys' morning assembly. Like most housemistresses/masters, she was in the habit of calling out the boys' names and instructing them to wait outside her study straight after assembly.<br /><br />I remember how the boys' faces would literally blanch as she called the list out. Indeed, a morning encounter with their housemistress meant spending the first few lessons of the day standing behind one's desk at the very least. I have to say that it both amused and puzzled me as a teacher to watch the boys' reaction as they had undoubtedly been alerted to their imminent fate the day before. On reflection, I suppose it was more to do with the ending of that vain hope that we teachers might just once forget to pass on their names. But no such luck, I'm afraid!<br /><br />I can still remember quite clearly young lads arriving late during my lesson after being `delayed' by Miss Hargreaves. Watching them make their way to the back of the classroom silently groaning and wincing thanks to their housemistress's skilled handiwork usually brought a silent chuckle to the face of pupil and teacher alike. Such a sorry spectacle was sure testament to just how Miss Hargreaves was very well versed in the art of administering a good old-fashioned swishing to a young lad's backside! I later discovered that her father had been a headmaster of a boys' school in Gloucestershire and she had been brought up on the grounds, so dealing with young lads was both in her upbringing as well as in the blood.<br /><br />Moreover, she was liable to administer extra strokes to any boy who arrived at her study looking slovenly so ties needed to be straightened and shoulders kept back in perfect fashion when they waited for her to arrive. Under Miss Hargreave's leadership, the boys looked smart, very smart indeed and, thanks to their housemistress's insistence upon high standards and traditional values, they wore grey shorts with a formal blazer and tie along with very smart-looking sock gaiters that bore `flashes' or ribbons in the junior house colours. The uniform helped to create a very pleasingly traditional atmosphere to the place and made the school feel very orderly indeed.<br /><br />And, I must say that I, along with the rest of the boys' masters and mistresses, thoroughly approved of Miss Hargreave's approach and all of us worked hard to ensure that such values as discipline, a sense of duty and respect for authority were held in high esteem by the boys at all times.<br /><br />Towards the end of morning assembly, the housemistress read out her list of names one by one in strict alphabetical order as was her custom.<br /><br />"Bigwood . . . Collis . . . Hunt . . . Page . . . Saunders . . . Thompson . . . and . . ."<br /><br />However, she paused for a good few seconds before announcing the last name in the list. Instead, she looked across the hall and stared straight at a young lad nervously sat upon the very end of one of the wooden chairs towards the front, desperately wondering at why his name had been omitted.<br /><br />"and finally . . ." she announced in a slow and deliberate fashion ". . . Barrett!"<br /><br />The boy looked back at the mistress with a look of fear and puzzlement in his face.<br /><br />"Mam?" he said quietly as though not quite believing what had happened.<br /><br />"Yes, Barrett," she replied in the same calm voice, "up here on the stage please, and you can bring your chair with you, young man."<br /><br />Barrett stood up immediately and carried the bare wooden school chair with great care up the steps towards the stage. He instinctively knew that it was not there to be sat upon, but as a support for his school blazer on its back and something to grasp on to each time his mistress applied a stroke upon his backside.<br /><br />"Chop, chop, Barrett," she called over to him, not offensively, "we haven't got all day, young man!"<br /><br />The boy finally reached the stage and froze for a moment as he realised he didn't know what to do next. He felt acutely aware of all the eyes firmly held upon him and looked beseechingly back at his housemistress.<br /><br />"Put the chair down, if you please, Barrett," she said in a quiet voice which approached a semi warm, maternal tone as she noted the boy's confusion, "and leave it there – I want you to stand in front of me now!"<br /><br />Miss Hargreaves was a tall woman in her early thirties and, as the young lad approached her across the stage, it suddenly became evident to everyone that, the closer he got, the less he was aware of the fact that the entire junior school was indeed watching him. For him, only one thing figured in his mind and that was the tall elegant mistress that stood before him in her impeccably pleated navy blue skirt, finely ironed white blouse and long black academic gown. Miss Hargreaves stooped forward slightly, both hands lightly held together before her and cleared her throat.<br /><br />"Well, Barrett," she said in a soft voice, "I have heard a lot of stories about you, young man. And it would appear that you have become quite famous in the school for your bad behaviour and laziness."<br /><br />The boy lowered his head and looked towards the floor, searching for an excuse that might never come.<br /><br />"Please look at me when I am talking to you!"<br /><br />Barrett quickly raised his head and looked sheepishly back at the gowned figure of authority that now stood over him by what felt like several feet.<br /><br />"That's better!" she affirmed, "But I am not quite so happy about the knot in your tie, straighten it up please, it looks very slovenly and I'm sure you don't want to look slovenly and let your school down, do you now, Barrett?"<br /><br />The boy immediately placed both hands upon his tie and quickly straightened its knot as he shook his head and answered, "No, Mam!"<br /><br />"Good!" stated Miss Hargreaves who slowly nodded her head with approval making the tassel on her mortar board gently wave from side to side, "Now I would like you to explain a few things to me, young man, a few things concerning your recent behaviour."<br /><br />Barrett nearly looked down again, but luckily caught himself just in time. He quickly raised his gaze to meet with the housemistress's eyes who briefly nodded with approval and then held him in her gaze. The young lad felt that he could now not look anywhere else and felt himself shrink as Miss Hargreave's voice become more enquiring.<br /><br />"What do you think of your recent behaviour, Barrett?"<br /><br />"Erm, I don't know, Mam!"<br /><br />"I beg your pardon!" she exclaimed with surprise in her voice. "Well, this is even more worrying that I had at first thought, young man. Maybe I can jog your memory with a few things that your teachers have said!"<br /><br />Miss Hargreaves reached for a small brown notebook on her lectern and opened it, licking her fingers and turning pages as she did so. "History," she announced, raising her voice as though forgetfulness might be akin to deafness. "Barrett is inattentive during lessons'. Science . . . `Barrett has a great propensity to play around during experiments, nearly spilt chemicals over another boy's clothes'. Geography . . . `Barrett would appear urged to engage in constant tomfoolery during all lessons'. English . . . `Barrett has made precious little effort'. Mathematics . . . `Barrett is bone idle and never listens' . . ."<br /><br />As the Miss Hargreaves spoke, it became ever more apparent that both mistress and boy were now quite unaware of a hundred others listening not more than a few yards away. Her voice became faster and gradually louder with exasperation as she read out words such as `inattentive, tomfoolery, a constant nuisance'. As she did so, she held the boy firmly and securely in her gaze, not allowing him even the slightest of reprieve as she grilled him ever more closely. She then brandished the small brown notebook before his nose before slamming it indignantly against the wooden surface of her lectern.<br /><br />"Please explain, Barrett!" she finally announced as her academic gown waved a little and seemed to merge into a whole with the boy's equally black school blazer, "Well, Barrett?" she insisted after hearing no reply, "I'm still waiting for an answer to my question!"<br /><br />Barrett took in a deep breath and then managed to answer in a small, diminutive voice that nobody could ever hope to hear.<br /><br />"Speak up, Barrett!" she answered loudly, "I can't hear you, boy!"<br /><br />The same stifled voice tried to answer again, this time, a little louder. "I'm sorry, Mam!"<br /><br />"Sorry for what, Barrett?" she asked immediately, requiring the boy to prove that he knew full well why he had earned the displeasure of his teachers.<br /><br />"For letting you down, Mam," he added.<br /><br />A lengthy silence followed. Miss Hargreaves breathed in and then finally pulled back her shoulders, granting Barrett a brief, yet short-lived respite from her attention. Then, slowly, she turned towards her lectern and reached into a box that had been neatly placed at its foot. She stooped down, lifted its lid and drew out a long, slender cane. Holding it between both hands she turned back towards the boy and cleared her throat.<br /><br />"True, Barrett, very true. You have let me down, but you have also let your school down and, most importantly of all, you have let yourself down."<br /><br />Barrett still knew better than to follow his instinct and let his gaze drop to the floor. This time he fixed his gaze upon the slender rod of correction that was now formed into a neat and very well defined arc between his housemistress's hands. Miss Hargreaves smiled slightly as she noticed where the boy's attention now lay and gently flexed the supple rattan into a tight circle and then relaxed it again. She did this a couple of times, quite frankly for effect, before gently addressing the boy now firmly under her tutelage.<br /><br />"Do you agree, Barrett?" she said in something akin to a faint whisper.<br /><br />"Yes, Mam," he replied not once taking his eyes off the school cane that continued to flex in and out between the lady's hands.<br /><br />"Good boy, Barrett," she replied with genuine warmth in her voice, "Now you can fetch the chair and we can begin. That's right," she announced as the boy turned around and fetched the small wooden chair he had brought with him onto the stage just a few minutes before, "Off with your blazer, please and take position over the chair . . . and mind that you don't get up until I decide that your correction is over, Barrett."<br /><br />"Yes, Mam!" came the boy's reply who, if the truth be told, was strangely relieved that the grilling was over and that his punishment could now finally begin.<br /><br />Miss Hargreaves slowly walked towards the boy and carrying the cane in just one hand, gently placed her other hand upon the boy's shoulder, "Now is your chance to show your school what you're made of, young man!" she murmured under her breath for her pupil's ears only.<br /><br />Barrett nodded imperceptibly and closed his eyes tightly shut. As he did so, he felt the hem of his mistress's gown gently brush against the backs of his legs and felt somehow specially privileged to have been the one selected as an example. He opened his eyes again and, looking downwards, he saw the sober navy blue fabric of his tie reaching down to the seat of the chair where its triangular end rested showing the junior school crest embellished in red and gold. The same pattern was repeated between each stripe of his house tie and he felt proud to be wearing his housemistress's colours and that his duty was to prove her right in her decision to pick him as, obviously, she knew full well that no other boy could have withstood the ordeal.<br /><br />"Are you ready, Barrett?"<br /><br />"Yes, Mam!"<br /><br />Both mistress and boy were surprised at the affirmativeness in the latter's voice and Barrett surprised himself beyond all comprehension when he felt himself urged to straighten his legs and push out his toes in order to make sure that his housemistress would be able to administer a good, clean swipe across his backside. Miss Hargreaves was moved as she took a pace back and then sent the rattan whistling through the air with her shoulder behind it. The cane swiped across the boy's full expanse and, with a deft twist of her wrist which had come with expert practice, she managed to cause its willowy tip to whiplash against the edge of his grey shorts.<br /><br />The sting was monstrous and Barrett gasped as the entirety, and not just one area, of his bottom erupted into a medley of scalding pain. However, he did not move or show one sign of being in pain. The boy's mistress nodded in recognition of his will power and raised her cane once more.<br /><br />On the second swipe, a sharp crack echoed around the school hall causing all assembled to jump in their seats and then gasp with pained disbelief. Barrett jolted slightly, but otherwise remained just as silent and still as before.<br /><br />The third and fourth strokes were just as withering as the first two. Yet, Barrett still remained steadfastly silent, the only clue of his inner battle against the bitter sting of his mistress's rod was the pure whiteness of his knuckles and his sharply clenched lips as he stared resolutely downwards and vainly willed the pain away.<br /><br />After the fifth stroke, Miss Hargreaves was genuinely moved and, instead of raising her cane once more, held it limply in one hand and stretched her hand out to pat the boy briefly upon his shoulder. "Barrett . . ." she whispered in a very low, hushed voice that denoted the genuine maternal affection that she held for her boys. "I'm proud of you, Barrett. Very proud of you, indeed. Just one more to go, Barrett."<br /><br />At first, the boy failed to respond to his mistress words, but instead of chastising him, she rubbed his shoulder once again and repeated his name a few more times, "Barrett . . . Barrett . . . Can you hear me, Barrett?" The boy enjoyed hearing his name being repeated with such admiration behind it and slowly began to nod his head as he felt comforted by her kindly voice and the edge of her gown that had draped itself over his back and down his legs as she reached towards his shoulder. "Yes, I can, Mam," he replied, "Thank you, Mam."<br /><br />Shortly after, the boy thought he could hear a gentle chanting coming as if on a hundred whispers from elsewhere. "Barrett. . . Barrett . . . Barrett . . . Barrett . . . Barrett" he wondered if he had imagined it and then just as he realised that it was in fact the entire junior school urging him on a teacher's voice cut across the hall and extinguished it straight away.<br /><br />Miss Hargreaves then raised her cane aloft and took a full pace and a half back. She knew that this one was going to bite and that, laid upon five other stinging red lines, it would probably send the poor brave lad to Hell and back. She drove the rod through the air, driving her body behind it as it rasped against the air and then finally cut into the boy's cheeks with a loud crack. Barrett immediately jolted forwards thrusting his head sharply upwards and then literally wailed like a wolf towards a full moon as he called out, "Oh, Mam . . . Oh, Mam . . . Please, Mam! . . . Oh Mam . . . Please, Mam!" at the very top of his lungs.<br /><br />"There, Barrett!" said the housemistress once the boy had finished, "It's over, young man." Miss Hargreaves then placed the cane across the top of her lectern and told Barrett to stand up, put his blazer back on join his form group below.<br /><br />"Thank you, Mam!" he said courteously before leaving the stage.<br /><br />A few days later, Miss Hargreaves summoned Barrett to her study during morning break. She joked with him, asking him if he had sat down yet since the morning assembly a few mornings before. Once she had finished laughing, she looked back at him seriously and added, "I do admire a lad who can take a good swishing, Barrett. And I must say that you took yours like no other boy I've known!"<br /><br />Barrett felt his chest swell with pride as his housemistress spoke these words.<br /><br />"Thank you, Mam," he replied, feeling his shoulders moving back and his chest coming forward to show willing respect for a superior. "I'm glad I didn't let you down, Mam!"</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8732875934038461471.post-12411373786251166102009-09-28T15:21:00.000-07:002009-10-07T15:26:02.914-07:00Cousin Alicia<div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: rgb(255, 127, 0);font-size:100%;" ><br />Here is a little piece of history I was sent a few years ago by an elderly friend of a cousin.<br /><br /></span></div><div face="arial" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></div><div face="arial" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></div><div face="arial" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Like so many others, I was evacuated during the war for fear of the same fate befalling <st1><st1>London</st1></st1> as <st1><st1>Rotterdam</st1></st1>, <st1><st1>Warsaw</st1></st1> and everything else that stood before the Nazi Reich. Although everyone assured us children that it was just a precaution, that probably nothing would happen, ‘just to be on the safe side, love’!<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div face="arial" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">But I was not herded with all the others into King’s Cross with a small brown trunk and a ticket with by name attached to my person. I was one of the lucky few; I was ferried by car instead. Father drove me down to <st1><st1>Somerset</st1></st1> where I was to stay with my Uncle Richard and Aunt Georgina. I hadn’t really met them before and when I did they seemed rather distant and I soon learnt that I would not be seeing much of them anyway since both were busy involving themselves in the war effort, Aunt Georgina through the rotary club and Uncle Richard leading the local unit of the home guard.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">They had a daughter who was older than me, my cousin Alicia. She was 17; a tall, proud-looking girl who audibly snorted when she first clapped eyes on me; I was a mere chit of an 11-year old at the time. My father and Uncle Richard told me that she would take care of me at school since I was now to attend the same school as her and probably during the evenings we would be quite often alone together and that I was given express instructions to listen to my cousin as she was older than me.<o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">School started the very next day and I hardly had time to get used to wearing the funny straw hat with the ribbon around it and the sash around my pinafore dress. Cousin Alicia led the way, she walked quickly and silently, whilst I desperately tried to keep up with her, all but running from behind. Eventually, she stopped to let me catch up and scolded me.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Oh do stop dawdling, child!” she said in her characteristically haughty fashion. “If you get me into trouble for being late, I really shall not be very happy with you, do you understand?”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">I nodded my head, but said nothing. I was rather in awe of her to be quite honest and, judging from how my cousin was, I had already gained the distinct impression that life would be much more bearable if I did as I was told.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1><st1>Mountfield</st1> <st1>Academy</st1></st1> was a good school, but rather more strict than what I was used to and I found that blending in was a matter of survival. A small group of girls kept looking at me and giggling, but not in a kind way and I could see that they would be trouble very soon.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">I saw Cousin Alicia once during the lunch hour. She was walking down the corridor with a couple of friends. All three of them wore smart burgundy coloured blazers with senior prefect badges on their lapels. She stopped me and rested her hand on my shoulder as she showed me off to her friends.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“And this is her!” she said. “Once I’ve trained her up she should fit in very well!”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Alicia and her two friends laughed at the joke. I stood and tried to offer a half smile, but to no avail as I was obviously seen as too young to join in on a joke with senior girls so I stood still and listened as they spoke about me. Cousin Alicia then stopped laughing and took out a school tie.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Here you go, littl’un,” she said not unkindly. “It was the last one in stock.”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Alicia didn’t hand the tie to me. She quietly raised my collar, wrapped it around and then did it up for me, making sure that the knot was very neat and tidy. She then fixed a few other details about my clothing and finished by tightening my hair band.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“There!” she finally said. “And don’t even think about looking scruffy or you’ll have me to reckon with as well as your teachers!”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Cousin Alicia smiled as she spoke, but she seemed serious too. I nodded my head and the three older girls walked on.<o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Homesickness had a curious effect on me. It made me dreadfully tetchy and irritable at everything and everyone, including Cousin Alicia. I became fed up with her constant bossiness and resented that anyone else save my parents could think themselves in a position to be like this with me.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">One evening, not long after dinner, both my cousin and I were alone in the house as usual. She was sat reading a book on a sofa and I was meandering, bored and with nothing in particular to do, but think of home and how I wished I could at least be bored in my own room there.<o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Go to the kitchen and get me a lemonade, will you littl’un?”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Normally, up to then, I would have done as I was told just to keep the peace. But Alicia had caught me at completely the wrong moment.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Don’t forget to pour one for yourself!” she added without looking up once from her book.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“You’ve got legs, haven’t you!” I shouted out from the bottom of the stairs as I made to start climbing them in order to get to my room, “So go and pour yourself a bloody lemonade, then!” I added as I started to climb them.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">I felt good at what I had just said. I continued to climb another few steps when, suddenly I heard movement from within the living room. I admit that I panicked inside and started to climb the stairs more quickly. I didn’t look back, but I could hear Alicia’s feet now stomping against the first few stairs. I rushed and then ran. Her footsteps clomped more loudly, came closer, then closer and, the next thing I knew, they were right on top of mine.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Come here!” her voice called virtually right into my ear.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Alicia caught my hand and put it behind my back and frogmarched me to her room. In one swoop, she placed herself on her bed and sent me flying towards her lap where I found myself helpless and unable to escape, my arm still tightly secured by her firm grasp.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“I’ll teach you to never swear at me again!” she said from above me as I felt my skirt being abruptly lifted and placed across my back.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Cousin Alicia gave what I can only describe as an old fashioned hiding. She didn’t utter a word as, again and again, she swatted my backside with the palm of her hand. After three or four very hard smacks, my bottom was stinging horribly and I felt I couldn’t take a lot more. I cried out for her to stop, tried to assure her that I was truly sorry and the last smack came only when she was sure in her mind that I was ready to comply with her will and recognise that, as far as I was concerned, she was the one in charge.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">When she had finished with me, she let me get up and she then silently produced a handkerchief and gently dabbed it around my eyes and cheeks in order to wipe away my tears . Eventually, she spoke and her voice sounded serious; just as she very obviously intended it to be.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Consider yourself lucky that it was only my hand this time,” she said.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">She then looked over to a chair, my eyes followed hers and we ended up looking at the same thing; an old and well worn gym shoe sat on the seat of an upright chair. I said nothing, but understood clearly that Alicia was not joking and that the both would be used if I chose to challenge her position ever again.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“So!” Alicia said suddenly, slapping both hands against her knees and smiling at me. “Where’s that lemonade, littl’un?”<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> <span style="font-size:100%;">I immediately darted down to the kitchen, poured two glasses and returned straight away. I handed one of the glasses to Alicia and smiled tentatively at her, she showed her pleasure at me and thanked me. After that, we sat side by side drinking our glasses of cool, refreshing lemonade.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8732875934038461471.post-64853412181465178662009-09-27T15:37:00.000-07:002009-10-07T15:39:11.077-07:00Miss Sarah<div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />I remember staying with my Aunt Winifred in the Weald of Kent for a few weeks many years back. She was feeling lonely after the recent death of my Uncle and my father had suggested that I go down to the small market town where she resided in order to cheer her up. Aunt Winifred’s cottage was fairly adjacent to a private school which, although a girls’ school in essence, did accept junior boys who would then go to their own senior school not so far away once they had finished there.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div face="arial" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div face="arial" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">As a teacher in the making at the time, I must say that I was highly impressed by the demeanour of the girls whenever I saw them walking through the town or past my aunt’s cottage. The sixth formers were the very epitome of everything one might hope for in a young lady attending a traditional English school. They were very nicely spoken without being affected in their accents, they were self confident without being arrogant and their dress was impeccable to say the least. Hair was neatly tied back, blazers and ties worn perfectly and they still attended school in an age when formal pleated skirts and white knee length socks were the norm for many of England’s schoolgirls right through to when their very last day of school at eighteen; and quite rightly so as it made them look wonderfully smart and enabled them to set a good example right the way down the school.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">These were sixth formers who were allowed to leave school premises when they so wished and seeing these smartly dressed young ladies around the town most certainly gave an exceedingly good impression of their school as well as of the area as a whole. It was only on Saturdays that one saw the younger members of the school who would obviously acquire the necessary exit ‘chitties’ from their housemistresses on condition of good behaviour during the week. Therefore, it was not until the Saturday that I noticed the young boys and the first thing that impressed me was their very polite and respectful attitude, especially towards the prefects. I noticed such details as caps being raised as they passed them and, on one occasion, whilst in a shop, a couple of boys were easily overheard addressing a prefect as ‘Miss Sarah’ which clearly showed the high level of respect that prefects were held in by the younger boys.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Even at the time, I was very much inclined to feel that having girl prefects in charge of younger lads is a very good idea indeed. Firstly, girls are far more mature than boys and far less likely to indulge in the heinous act of bullying those smaller or more helpless when power is granted to them. Moreover, it most certainly helped the girls to gain experience in how to deal with young lads and be well prepared for motherhood in later life. Indeed, I discovered some years later that a disproportionately large number of these girls went on to become matrons, governesses and, especially, schoolmistresses at boys’ schools in particular and I am sure that it is due to the enlightened thinking of their <i>alma mater</i> that they were so admirably well disposed to exercising their talents in these areas.<br /><br /><o></o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o> </o></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> <span style="font-size:100%;">Over the years, I have managed to establish contact with a couple of the boys who actually attended the school and, in both cases, they were very eager to sing its praises and talk of the old place with great affection and I have recently been drawing their reminiscences together and would like to add them to this list at some time in the near future. The girls kept a tight ship at times, making sure that the lads were smartly dressed, walked in orderly fashion in the corridors, did their prep and such like. But they also had a great deal of humanity and genuine concern for their ‘underlings’ and were prepared to play a big sister role when required, acting as mentors, guides and confidants on many occasions and, upon others occasionally having to remind the boys of the necessary boundaries and reluctantly resorting to the prefect’s gym shoe or taking the odd erstwhile lad across their knees.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8732875934038461471.post-91694427068391623472009-09-26T15:40:00.000-07:002009-10-07T16:11:55.762-07:00Mrs Perkins - a Very English French Teacher<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HRlBKK5oeWM/Ss0gNH34XEI/AAAAAAAAACc/T-UcetJ6S30/s1600-h/304762748_a78e4e38ed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 301px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HRlBKK5oeWM/Ss0gNH34XEI/AAAAAAAAACc/T-UcetJ6S30/s400/304762748_a78e4e38ed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389999738856168514" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0); font-weight: bold;">Here is a piece I came across in my own group that was written by a member who attended a boys' school in England . . .</span><br /><br /><br />I remember her introducing herself during her very first lesson. She explained that, as much as she spoke fluent French . . . "I am a Berkshire lady born and bred and know among many other things the rules of cricket, how to make a decent cup of tea and how to deal with English boys such as I see before me!" She then pointed to a row of brass hooks along the wall of her classroom and, as she opened her register book and leafed through to what must have been a handwritten list of our names, she explained how blazers were to be removed and placed upon the same hook each and every lesson before making for our desks.<br /><br />"Baxter" she called out scanning the room, "First hook, please. . . Bishop, second hook . . . Chapman, third hook" and so on until her index finger had run down the entire list of names. This was quite obviously Mrs Perkins own classroom rule and be it summer or the very depths of winter, we worked on our French verbs in shirt sleeves without complaint. She was also a very dedicated teacher of French if the truth be known and had never been fully satisfied with the dry, arid tomes that taught the language as though it had died alongside Ancient Greek and Latin a few thousand years before. Therefore, she had created her own book, tailored made for English boys at a school such as ours.<br /><br />The format would have been obvious enough by today's standards, but in 1954, it was quite innovative for a school book; each chapter covered a typical situation such as meeting a French pen pal, shopping, buying a ticket. Moreover, she had even added very neatly drawn illustrations alongside each dialogue with a boy wearing our school uniform so that maybe we could make believe it was us!<br /><br />I should think that the printing charges of such a limited publication far exceeded those for more common scholastic text books that were then on the market. But Mrs Perkins had insisted on having her own book just as she had insisted on brass hooks being put up in her classroom and that every boy in her classroom should sit bolt upright and be listening attentively.<br /><br />"Marchant!" she called out across the classroom during one lesson just a week or so into our first term with her. "Est-ce que vous m'écoutez, Marchant?" she asked the boy who had clearly not understood. "Stand up, please and tell me what we have just been talking about."<br /><br />No reply. The boy just stood before his desk looking completely a blank as he shuffled nearly imperceptibly from one foot to the other and then lightly cleared his throat.<br /><br />"Approchez, s'il vous plaît" she commanded, "Yes, that's right, Marchant. To the front of the room, if you please."<br /><br />In the meantime, a cane had appeared in Mrs Perkins' hand, it was smaller and lighter than the type used by our housemaster and was more akin to those used further down the school in the prep school section.<br /><br />"Hand, please."<br /><br />Mrs Perkins raised the cane and then, with absolutely no warning, quickly brought it down and up again; all in the flash of a moment. Its very end had `kissed' Marchant's palm for what must have been no more than a fraction of a second, nearly too fast for our eyes to see. Yet, it had been long enough for Marchant to emit a very sharp yelp of surprise, jerk his freshly stung hand towards his mouth and then return to his desk, sucking and blowing all the while upon a thin burning line that fast appeared across the palm of his blighted hand.<br /><br />"Take your hand away from your mouth, Marchant!" ordered Mrs Perkins, quite displeased that such an unsightly spectacle should occur in her classroom. "Chapman," she then called out, diverting her attention to the other side of the classroom, "I would like you and Palmer to read out the dialogue on page four, please. Chapman can be the French pen pal and Palmer can be the English pen pal. . . I'm sure you can manage that at least, can't you, Palmer?" she added with a faint smile.<br /><br />"Yes, mam," replied the boy as he looked to page four and began to read before the class in his very best of schoolboy French.<br /><br />Bishop</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8732875934038461471.post-82386377001701694152009-09-24T15:45:00.000-07:002009-10-07T16:19:32.938-07:00The Perfect Knot<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HRlBKK5oeWM/Ss0h_i77h1I/AAAAAAAAACk/xprvd0cxkBs/s1600-h/speech_day_dec_06_003.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 393px; height: 338px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HRlBKK5oeWM/Ss0h_i77h1I/AAAAAAAAACk/xprvd0cxkBs/s400/speech_day_dec_06_003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390001704625997650" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0); font-weight: bold;"><br />Here is another piece taken from a boy's memoirs on school life</span><br /><br /><br />Something that I do remember is the day of my thirteenth birthday.<br /><br />The entire school was had been instructed to assemble once again on the parade ground at break time for failing to enter the school hall in perfect silence for morning assembly. After the morning lesson, us boys were lead out by our teachers and made to stand to attention in our form groups. And there we stood shoulders back, eyes straight forward, perfectly still for a full twenty minutes, but which truly felt like an eternity at the time.<br /><br />It was a gusty, crisp late September morning and I remember our masters' gowns billowing in the wind as they watched us carefully. Suddenly, a gust of wind lifted my tie away and caused it to twirl and flutter around my shoulders, face and then over the back of my shoulder again. At first, it was rather amusing and it drew a few side-long glances from my classmates. Of course, I had to leave it since we were all expected to remain perfectly silent and still in our lines for a number of minutes as we were made to reflect on our lack of respect during that day's morning assembly.<br /><br />"Bishop!"<br /><br />I heard the voice of Miss Fowler, the mistress who had taken us for history the previous lesson and who was responsible for us. Upon hearing my name, I reacted like any other boy from our school upon hearing his name from a figure of authority. I immediately pulled my shoulders back and stood even more firmly to attention, eyes forward all the time and answered my mistress.<br /><br />"Yes, Mam!"<br /><br />Miss Fowler then made her way towards me, the sides of her gown buffeted by the same wind that had caught my tie. Albeit the youngest of the three lady teachers that taught at senior level, she nonetheless commanded our respect and had no qualms about correcting a lad when displeased.<br /><br />"Put your tie back into your blazer, young man!"<br /><br />I managed to take hold of the erstwhile tie and tucked back in as best as I could. Miss Fowler approached me a little more and then shook her head slowly from side to side with what might have eve been a small imperceptible smile somewhere behind her eyes.<br /><br />"Bishop . . . Bishop . . . Bishop . . . Bishop" Miss Fowler continued to whisper my name in a near maternal-like way as she moved in closer and then, to my surprise and undoubtedly to that of my classmates who were watching unguardedly by now, she slowly knelt down and, one by one, hitched each of my socks up and even tidied the school ribbons. She then stood up again and, with both hands, lifted my shirt collar and proceeded to redo my school tie in expert fashion, it has to be said.<br /><br />"What are we going to do with you, Bishop?" she said calmly as her fingers slid my tie into a tidy, regulation knot which she then tugged into place until perfectly flush against my collar.<br /><br />At that moment, the school bell sounded and we were marched away towards the building in time for our next lesson. I caught sight of myself in the window of a door. My tie was perfect. Both its position and knot was of an order of perfection that only an English school mistress could have achieved in that day and age. As I entered though that same door, I then began to feel acutely aware of the tie around my neck and the uniform that I was wearing.<br /><br />I nodded my head a little as I thought back to my history mistress and whispered, "Thank you, Mam," under my breath and understood why I felt so proud of my uniform. I was no longer wearing it because I had to; I was wearing it for her and the values that she represented in all of our minds though the examples that she keenly taught in her lessons – order, self discipline and a keen sense of duty.<br /><br />Bishop<br /></span> </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0